Keep
by justcallmesmitty
Summary: [Harbor Universe No. 2] Modern AU. On the eve of merging their fathers' companies, Francis and Mary struggle against unforeseen circumstances that threaten their relationship, friends, and livelihoods. Rated safely for language and possible adult situations; nothing explicit.
1. Prologue

**Keep —  
**_verb_: to continue in an action, course, position, state, etc.; to keep going; to remain, or continue to be, as specified: to keep cool; to remain or stay in a particular place; to continue unimpaired or without spoiling; to admit of being reserved for a future occasion.  
_noun: _board and lodging; subsistence; support; the innermost and strongest structure or central tower of a medieval castle.

* * *

The restaurant bustles about me, the distinct tinkle of crystal and silverware softly sounding off in the distance toward the kitchen. I don't often eat on the river, but I'm meeting a friend. With school in session, he only has a few hours between rounds and classes at the NYU School of Medicine nearby and he refuses to travel north of 42nd for that reason. Personally, the only time I'm found south of 47th is when I have a fitting for an event that for whatever reason can't occur in my own home.

Surprisingly, our corner table provides an incomparable view of the river for this October day. I lean into the wicker chair and sip my white wine. The setting bleeds rustic. It might be a while. Nostradamus left a message with the _maître d_ to inform me that he would be late ‑ a student requiring some life lesson that I'm certain he gave with his typical grace and not with the merciless hand I would have dealt.

For nearly a quarter of a century, I have somehow maintained a friendship with this man so vastly different from me. Too often, I consider him too soft for his own good. Weak, even. His compassion knows no bounds, though he can set it aside when his profession requires it. Widely known for his talent as a physician and scholar, he remains a humble person. Most days, I don't associate with humble people. I don't like them.

Following the death of his first wife, he returned to the Village and the neighborhood where he grew up. When I met him, he had recently married his second wife, a charming woman named Anne who was desperate to give him children. Fertility treatments being particularly unpredictable in the early 90s, Anne's pregnancies resulted in two sets of twins.

I met him in a waiting room. He waited for his wife. I waited for answers.

A sigh slips from my lips as I stare out at the river, remembering that day. I had only recently discovered my own pregnancy and feared the worst after my husband and I had unsuccessfully tried to conceive for nearly a decade. Among my greatest anxieties were a miscarriage or ectopic pregnancy. Nothing could convince me that I would carry the child to term.

And part of me did not want to do so, even after all our time and effort ‑ for I didn't want to risk my secrets being known.

As I sat there, guilt threatened to overtake me and I fought the urge to walk out that door and to a much different type of clinic. Then, this giant of a man sat down next to me.

For all his infernal kindness, Nostradamus puts forth a very imposing image. Large. Hirsute. Unwavering in his gaze. He earns the respect of every student in that way, I am sure. Even more frightening, however, is when he turns to you with his eyes glazed over ‑ and he speaks from a place that holds no bearing with your reality.

His voice unnerved me when he spoke for the first time. Gruff, but somehow musical. Soft and just loud enough that only I could hear it. It had a rhythm to it I had not anticipated. I looked for another place to sit or a way out of the crowded room, quickly formulating my exit strategy because I was taught as a girl to have one in every situation.

He sounded haunted, as if he didn't want to say what he was saying ‑ as if he regretted the very words as they exited his mouth ‑ but he also seemed compelled to speak, as if he couldn't keep himself from doing so.

_The child you carry is not your husband's, but it also will not live. A son will be born to you next year, on the nineteenth of January._

I sat, frozen in my seat. Skepticism bubbled to the surface, audible scoffs ready to emerge. Never have I considered myself a religious woman ‑ I have never been one to believe in anything other than what I can control with my own two hands ‑ but his words caught me off my guard and made me consider the very thing that most caused my heart to clench inside my chest as I sat there, waiting.

_How could he have known I did not carry my husband's child?_

The moments afterward rang with my utter shock and silence. The nurse called for me and, relieved, I hurried into my appointment, glancing back quickly to see the man shake his head as though he were clearing cobwebs from the corners of his mind.

As I walked up to the nurse, she looked at my shaken face and asked if I was all right. "Was Michael bothering you?" she questioned, only to be met by a puzzled expression from me. "Dr. Nostradamus?" she added, to clarify. "He's a bit of an odd duck. Don't pay him any mind."

Three days later, I lost the child I carried. The one that wasn't my husband's.

In the weeks that followed, I replayed his words in my head over and over. I quickly became pregnant again ‑ this time, at Henry's doing. At my first appointment, I was told my due date would be mid-January.

A week later, I found his number and called him to ask how he possibly could have known. He explained everything.

I have kept him close ever since.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Well, here begins part two of the _Harbor_ saga (if you haven't read _Harbor_, I recommend it for context and world-building). This will be an interesting ride, but I do hope you'll enjoy going on it with me! If things go as planned, I should be posting an update once each week. If I end up writing the last four sections more quickly than I think, that might speed publication up a bit (but I promise nothing!). Please leave me a review and let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer:** I have no claim of ownership on "Reign" or its characters. They belong to the CW, CBS and Laurie McCarthy. I just like the chance to stretch myself as a writer and play with them! The plot behind this modernized AU version of the show and any non-canon characters are mine, but I don't ever anticipate they will ever cross over with the show itself.


	2. ONE: Board and lodging

"Thank you for clarifying how our policies will need to change with the merger, Mr. Valois."

I stand, taking in the view by the conference room window. Glancing my head over my shoulder, I realize that the HR head has remained behind as the other department heads have scattered to their various corners of the Stuart Tech offices ‑ and some to lunch appointments, as the workday nears its middle.

"Of course. James, is it?" I turn and extend my hand as a formality to the dark-haired young man. "While everyone has been introduced to me, I don't think we have officially met."

He laughs, taking my hand and shaking it firmly before we both return our arms to our sides. "It is not often our experience that people in your position want to meet those they are taking over. We're grateful for the extended time you have spent with us to help us understand what to expect over the next year as Stuart comes under Valois."

Something about James Moray seems a bit strange to me, but I can't quite put my finger on what it might be. Familiar, somehow. I put it quickly out of my mind as he continues. "Three weeks is a long time to be away from one's home. I'm sure you are eager to get back to it."

I smile, remembering the very reason I'm standing in this warm conference room in the middle of October on the other side of the country from my home. I affirm his statements with a nod and a hearty, "I am." But as suddenly as I have joy in my remembrance, homesickness also runs its course through my veins.

"You will be back in a month for a shorter visit, correct?" James asks.

"Yes," I respond. "I will be back with further instructions on integrating our customer database system and, yes, it will be a much shorter visit," I add gratefully. In this moment, with the prospect of home so close, the idea of returning to this place seems wretched ‑ but I know, given enough time, I'll be eager to come back. While I've always wondered whether I really wanted the position reserved for me at my father's company, I have fully enjoyed the work of preparing Stuart for takeover because it brings Mary considerable joy.

"Well then," James extends his hand again. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Valois. I look forward to seeing you again next month." This time, my turn to shake. "Enjoy your month at home."

He retracts his hand, tips his head and I am alone in the room for the first time all day. Seventeen hours stand between me and home. When the arrangements were made three weeks ago, Natalia booked me on the first flight out tomorrow morning, thinking that I would have dinner tonight with Stuart Tech's current COO, Earl Arran. Due to a sick daughter, Earl needed to postpone our outing to his favorite restaurant until my next visit.

Seventeen hours. The thought of returning to another lonely night in my otherwise pleasant and commodious executive rental sits sourly in my stomach. _No, that really won't do_.

A thought begins to form in my head as I calculate just how long it will take for me to pull my belongings together. I reach for my phone and call for a car. As I hang up with the dispatch service, I dial a second number. "Natalia? Yes, it's me. Change of plans, if you can manage it … "

* * *

The taxi deposits me at the curb, the driver removing my suitcase from the trunk. I pay the man from the bills in my wallet and thank him as he returns to the driver-side door. To my left, windows reflect the late afternoon sunlight. I grab ahold of the handle on the bag and walk my way toward the front door, which our doorman holds open for me.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Valois," he greets me politely. "Welcome back. May I help you with either of those?" he gestures to my bags.

"Good afternoon, William," I reply simply. "And, no ‑ I can manage on my own. Thank you."

If possible, I'd like to avoid any sort of conversation that prevents me from reaching my destination quickly. Luckily, he doesn't seem to be in the mood to chat today and leads me to the elevator doors, pressing the 'up' button to summon the machine from the third floor.

The weight of the long weeks in Sacramento seem to lift from my shoulders as I climb into the elevator and see the familiar gray paneling inside. I push the button for the eighth floor and the contraption begins to lurch upward. Smiling to myself, I wonder just how she'll react to my early arrival.

There are many things I love about this building, but two of the best are that it is not my parents' house and that it is nowhere near my parents' house. Both wonderful things for me, but sometimes a bit tricky for my mother's staff ‑ who she insists come over twice a week to help keep things tidy and to collect our laundry. She hates the idea of our using the building's communal laundry room and allowing our clothing to mingle with that of the common folk.

Not that many 'common' folk could purchase a $600,000 unit outright with cash. I suppose she thinks we should have looked for a building both closer to her and with at least one more zero added to the price range for us to be sufficiently respectable.

But chief among the many things I love about this building, beautifully built in 1907 by skilled craftsmen, is that I have made a home here ‑ with Mary.

I step out through the widening doors and toward 805, the corner unit. Key firmly in hand, my fingers reach for the knob. From inside, I can hear the stereo blaring ‑ likely the latest in indie folk or bluegrass or whatever it is that Greer and Kenna keep giving Mary to try out. As loud as it is, I realize she isn't likely to hear me enter.

My key slides into the lock and I slip inside the door quietly, taking care to set my suitcase down in the entryway and to remove my shoes. Peering around the corner, I watch her as she spins in time to the music, her dark hair whipping around and sticking to the corners of her mouth in her fervor. There has always been a captivating sort of wildness to her ‑ something untameable. It is one of many things I hope will never change, no matter how long she stays in the corporate world.

Catching sight of white against the dark granite, I realize there's flour everywhere: on the floor, on the counter, in her hair. I can't quite determine what she's attempting to make. When the song ends and a new one begins, she stops her whirling frame and leans against the counter to catch her breath. It's been too long since I last touched her and I decide I can't wait any longer. Feeling my very insides hum in anticipation, I tiptoe up behind her, set my hands at the sides of her waist and breathe her name softly into her left ear.

Her body jumps at the contact and she battles to turn in my arms. Eyes wide, she exclaims, "You're not supposed to be here!" and, then, she laughs ‑ that beautiful mouth of hers opens in joy and bubbles with laughter that phone calls can't capture, no matter how clear the transmission. I can't help but capture her lips with my own, drawing out that magical first contact ‑ that lingering, teasing pull ‑ until we're both breathless.

_Truly, it has been too long._

"Earl had to cancel our dinner, so I had Natalia change my flight," I answer, leaning my head against hers and catching my breath. "Is that a problem?" I ask. Our noses rub against one another and I try to conceal how my breath hitches as I look up to see her eyes brimming with emotion.

_How did I get so damn lucky?_

"No … " her voice drifts as she pulls back a bit to glance about the room, and I amusedly watch it dawn on her that nothing is sufficiently clean for my homecoming. "I just didn't expect you yet."

"That was my intention," I remind her, letting go of a small chuckle at her expression. "So … " I begin, taking in the state of the kitchen around me and stifling the laughter that threatens to break free. "What are you making?"

She colors, caught. It is no secret that she doesn't cook, much less bake. While true that she keeps trying, so far nothing has turned out as she has hoped or intended.

"That book … " she protests, a steeliness appearing in her eyes as she lifts a finger and angles it toward the counter. "That book _says _this bread is 'foolproof'! _Foolproof!_ I thought I would at least give it a _try_. It has to rise overnight," she continues, determinedly adamant. Her eyebrow lifts ever-so-slightly in that teasing way of hers, her mood shifting to mischief. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow, or I would have started it last night."

Her feet begin to shift her weight, one side to the next ‑ from the left to the right. She's cute when she does that. A thought occurs to me while we stand here in our kitchen, together for the first time in weeks.

_God, I love that little word 'our.' _

"Are you hungry right now?" I inquire, to which she shakes her head 'no'. "How much do you have left with this bread?"

She purses her lips and looks at the cookbook where it lays open. "Not much. I think I just need to cover it." Pulling out the plastic wrap, she begins to work the flimsy film from its container and onto the top of the Dutch oven where she has her dough.

As she finishes, I trace lazy circles on the back of her right hand through the maze of caked-on flour spots. I feel her sharp intake of breath, her back to my chest. Thinking of this moment ‑ this very moment, right here, with _this _woman ‑ has kept me going for the last twenty days. Silently, I thank Earl's daughter for being sick.

"Done?" I ask, watching her push her experiment against the backsplash. She nods and I stoop to pick her up, my arms finding familiar holds around her middle back and under her thighs as she shrieks and bats at me. "Good." My smile widens as I carry her from the kitchen. "You could use a shower," I suggest.

As I open the bathroom door with my foot, she smirks in my arms and eagerly begins to undo the buttons on my travel-worn shirt. "So could you," she adds coyly, pushing it off of my shoulders so it falls to the tile floor. "So could you."

* * *

The autumn sun wakes me in the morning as it slants through the bedroom window and I reach over to find I'm alone. Puzzled, I reach for the towel laying on the floor that never made its way back to the bathroom last night. Because of my extended absence and last-minute change of plans, it takes me a while to settle on the fact that it's Saturday morning.

_Saturday means wedding planning._

Which means Mary has brunch with my mother. I roll my eyes and drop my feet onto the floor, wishing we could have stayed indefinitely as we were last night. That wide smile of hers, the smoothness of her bare flesh against mine, the way she squirms as I tickle her sides. Not for the first time, I wonder what it would be like to marry this incredible woman, to tie myself to her for a lifetime with vows and children and everything that hasn't already been combined.

No other woman has ever held my attention as she has, moment to moment, day to day. Even as I fought it in the weeks that followed, from the moment I saw her standing on that bench in Penn Station and registered just whom she was, I knew that there would be no other women ever again.

Wandering over to the closet, I snatch clothes from the bureau inside and begin to dress myself. Sliding my hand into the top drawer, I move aside some pocket squares to make sure she hasn't discovered what I hid under them before I left for Sacramento and am delighted to find the box still in the same position and still unopened. I move back toward the bed, pulling the covers back fully so they can air before Annette inevitably arrives later today for my mother's ritual pre-homecoming housecleaning. It won't take her long to clean up, but I don't want to deny her the opportunity to make the one bed that exists in our small unit and stay away from my parents' house a little longer.

Stepping into the main room, I start the coffeepot, snag the newspaper off of the counter and my latest literary conquest from my carryon ‑ where I left it in the hallway last night ‑ and settle in on the couch while the grounds filter through into the carafe below.

_There really is no place like home_.

Halfway through my chapter in Dostoevsky's _The Idiot_, the door swings open and Mary enters. She shuffles in, puts her jacket away and nods hello before busying herself in the kitchen. I can tell she's distracted by something ‑ but when I ask her what happens to be the problem, she merely turns to put the flour away and brushes off my question.

Confused, I let it go for the time being and decide to take a different tack as she moves through the living area, picking up items to return to their usual places. "How did things go with my mother today?" I question, reaching for her as she passes by and pulling her toward me on the couch. She loses her balance and falls into me, landing firmly in my lap with a stack of mail in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.

"Fine," she shrugs nonchalantly, attempting to mask her reluctance. "Sometimes I wonder if she actually remembers that these weekly meetings are to keep up the appearance that we're planning a wedding and that we are not, in fact, planning a wedding," she rambles ‑ finding a new way to evade my question and to avoid answering it directly by discussing my mother and not their time together.

"You know," I entreat. "We _are_ running out of time. The merger schedule has only bought us an extra year. People initially expected us to get married last month."

"Yes, but it's your mother. _She_ isn't 'people'. She knows that we aren't actually engaged." I hear the annoyance in her voice and wonder if it's with my mother or it's with me. We've been together for more than a year, but we haven't discussed the possibility of an actual wedding since I asked her to move in with me. It's not that I haven't thought about it ‑ I never stopped, if I'm honest ‑ but I told her that we would take our time in figuring out all of those details at a later date.

I wonder if that later date has arrived.

"Well," I tread cautiously. "I think she hopes that, in time, we will decide that we do want to get married and, in that case, she will have already planned our wedding." She sighs against me. "Granted, she's planning a society wedding and I'm more a fan … of not having _that_, but her heart's in the right place."

I feel Mary's body tense, suddenly rigid at the mention of my mother's heart, and my confusion continues to mount. Last night, we simply and happily enjoyed the fact that I was back home and that we were once more together. _What in the world happened this morning?_

Dropping the subject ‑ assuming her mood will pass with time ‑ I nudge her and point toward the covered pot on the kitchen counter. "Do you need to do anything with that this morning?"

"Ah!" she exclaims, bounding up. "I should work on that."

I watch her make her way to where she can see the marked page in her cookbook. Whatever lingers in her mind, I don't think it worthwhile to press her right now. Maybe she'll be ready to share once she has had the chance to process whatever it is that has her preoccupied.

And, if not, there's always one other person I can ask.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Happy fic request, Heather! ;)

Thanks to everyone for their wonderful feedback! I'll try to get back to everyone who left a review sometime tonight. It's a true joy to know that you're liking it so far. Part of what I've gravitated toward since "Gone" is writing from different perspectives and, particularly with multi-chapter fics, I find them useful for showing different parts of the story while leaving others to be guessed (since a first-person narrator limits the reader to know only what the narrator knows). Many of you deduced correctly that the prologue was Catherine, though I apologize if my dropping you into her narrative without warning was a bit jarring. If you're wanting clarity on the remainder of the story, Francis and Mary will alternate through the sixth proper chapter, with Catherine coming around again in the epilogue.

And, no, your eyes don't deceive you - I did publish this _far_ sooner than the intended week. I somehow managed to crank through the first draft of the fourth proper chapter in two days! Between that and the fact that this chapter is where you finally start to see the overall story arc, I figured it was worthwhile to go ahead and hit 'publish'. Let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer: **Some of the language will be familiar, in particular, 'I love that word, _our,_' which is a shifted version from 108 of the series. Those words are not mine. This chapter doesn't really take place in canon, so it's more mine than anything else - save the characters themselves.


	3. TWO: To keep going

Leaping up from my sprawl across Francis' lap, I realize I'm reacting as quickly as one does when playing 'Hot Potato' as a child. It seems I cannot get away from him quickly enough.

The kitchen and my baking project beckon to me. I scan the book so I know what to do at this stage, though I'm fairly certain I had the simple recipe memorized before I began the endeavor. Though I just put it away when I arrived home, I pull the flour back out of the pantry and sprinkle a little on top to keep the sticky mess from adhering to my fingers as I punch and turn it.

I toss a little more on the counter and dump the contents of the Dutch oven out on top of it. My hands alternate between open palms and clenched fists. Punch. Turn. Fold. Punch again. Repeat. The recipe warns against over-kneading, so I have to catch myself and keep the motions slow to delay my return to the conversation I desperately desire not to have with Francis.

_This is madness_. My head shakes in response to my thoughts of this morning's conversation with Catherine. I know he is her son and she is overly protective, but _this_? Sheer madness.

Mid-shake, my eye catches sight of him in the next room. As only a gentleman could be, he is currently curled into an easy chair with his latest Russian novel, one ankle crossed over his other knee perpendicularly. He looks relaxed and comfortable. The midday sun streams through the window and glints through his golden curls. A sigh slips from my mouth.

All of this happens in a single moment, at the same time that a tightness begins to form in my chest. I feel the weight of Catherine's words as I look at him. He alone makes it difficult to breathe at times ‑ the knowledge of his love and his affection toward me ‑ but that coupled with what I know now nearly suffocates me.

I distract myself by placing the dough back in the pot, the flour back on its shelf in the pantry, and wringing out a dishrag before running it along the countertop to pick up any stray flour remnants. _She's merely being superstitious. There is no reason to be concerned_.

Personally, I adhere to little superstition. For nearly my entire life, I have rested on what I or the government could accomplish in keeping me safe. No fortune teller came forward to tell my mother that my father would be brutally murdered or that she would spend the remainder of her life in a mental institution, unable to care for her only child. In the end, I worked hard and wound up here in New York, rediscovering my best friend from childhood and taking his family as my own.

No, certainly no reason for concern.

But as I rinse the cloth and return it to its spot, I glance up and see him hunched over his book, golden and beautiful and so much more than I ever hoped for ‑ _my partner in life, my best friend _‑ and I can't help but wonder if there might be any measure of merit to Catherine's claims. Surely Nostradamus didn't see whatever he saw correctly. Surely 'death' isn't _death_ but some sort of parallel. Surely he knows of what happened with my father, of the assault I withstood last year. All of the men responsible for threatening me and killing my father have stood trial and continue their lives behind bars with no hope of upcoming release. If Francis continues to involve himself with my company, then he will experience a ruination or death of his career. Surely, he didn't mean that he would lose _his_ _life_ over his desire to help me with the only thing my father was able to leave me ...

_But can I really take that risk with the man that I love?_

I move into the living area, giving myself a wide berth of where Francis sits in his chair. I'm not eager for a repeat of what happened earlier, when he pulled me down to see how my morning went. Snatching up some clothing I threw onto the back of the couch earlier in the week, I make my way to the bedroom. As I walk into the room, I spy Francis' handiwork in turning down the bed and returning last night's towels to their rightful places. I find the bag designated for dry cleaning and toss in the skirt from my right hand. I position the sweater in my left on a hanger before squeezing it between two others in the closet.

Last night feels as if a dream, foggy in all its delight and love-induced stupor. A distant memory. I don't understand how it could be only last night he came home and we enjoyed one another for the first time in weeks; how he tickled and I giggled and we spoke of the future and how he wants children; how the whole world lay open before us, lovely and carefree in its gifts to us.

Sighing, I sift through the hamper to find any last stragglers for the cleaners and drag the bag out into the main room with me.

"Francis?" I ask quietly as I exit the bedroom. His eyes find a place to pause on his page and he looks up. "Do you have anything that needs to be dry cleaned or did you leave it in Sacramento?"

"Since I'll be back there next month, I decided to leave it. I can get by without," he replies, shrugging. "What is in my suitcase can just be sent with Annette when she goes back to my parents'."

"Okay," I nod in response, moving to put the bag by his suitcase in the hall. I had forgotten he would be back in Sacramento in a month. _What if ..._

I force myself away from the thought as I continue my efforts to put items where they belong and start a mental list of what I still need to pick up from the Italian deli down the street for dinner. _Ravioli_. _Sauce_. _Wine? _Reaching for a stack of mail where I stashed it earlier on a shelf, my eyes settle again on Francis and every ounce of logic I possess rushes to assure me that nothing will happen to him.

For a perfectly healthy and capable Francis sits reading before me. Anyone who has tried to hurt us remains in jail. We have our whole lives before us. In this moment, I realize Catherine _has_ to be wrong. The words slip firmly into my mind before I can stop them. Their refrain has been incessant since the moment I detected the fear in Catherine's eyes this morning.

_This is madness_.

* * *

_Fresh air at last_.

I breathe in, my lungs filling with the crisp evening's oxygen. The cool of the metal railing settles firmly behind my back, the entirety of the yacht and its guests stretching out before me. Henry has spared no expense in attempting to cozy up to our clients, both old and new, but the air easily stagnates inside the craft's small enclosure of windows. This event means that Henry wants something. I can feel it my bones, but I don't yet know what it means.

As the company's information officer, I'm only here to schmooze and reinforce public perception of the combined force of Valois and Stuart Technologies. I left Francis inside with a few older gentlemen, excusing myself from their array of questions about the merger and the foreseeable future of the security market.

From my perch, I take note of my key personnel as they mingle and charm. Kenna flits from man to man, always casually glancing over her shoulder to see whether she has made Henry jealous. Lola laughs in a corner with Bash, friends connected by a shared history who have as little desire as I do to be here tonight. Curiously enough, Greer and Leith both seem to have disappeared, leaving an older gentleman named Aloysius and a younger one named Julien scanning the room for her presence. I shake my head in disbelief at Greer's decided inability to make a decision or to let herself be happy, the three men contending for her heart and her hand in marriage in vastly different ways. At a table near a window, I watch as Aylee settles in next to Catherine ‑ no doubt sharing the latest Connecticut gossip from her mother and hoping for any confidence of Catherine's to share with me.

The first party since their relocation to be closer to Philip's family, I can't help but miss Elisabeth and her husband's presence. She would have stuck by my side tonight, trying to keep me entertained with people-watching and gossip, and the evening would have moved so much faster while Francis and Philip made their rounds inside. An additional benefit would have been that I wouldn't have needed to recruit Aylee to keep abreast of Catherine's movements if Elisabeth were still here. She gladly would have done it for me.

Reminding myself that I need all the leverage I can get, I still regret that I'm hiding Aylee and her 'spying' from Francis. The truth remains that I'm hiding much more than Aylee's volunteering to investigate his mother. He still doesn't know what his mother told me and I can't bring myself to tell him. It's not the right time. _Will it ever be?_

I take a sip from the glass in my hand, long forgotten in light of the thoughts consuming my mind, and I roll the stem back and forth between my fingers. The Chardonnay lands brightly on my tongue and I look up to see a tray of some sort of seafood puff being passed around by a server inside. Surely, the wine and food would pair nicely, but something sits heavily in my stomach and makes the very thought of eating unappealing.

The boat lurches ever-so-slightly and a little of my drink slips over the edge of its rim and splashes downward. A few drops land on the skirt of my champagne-colored dress. I reach down to brush the droplets away, taking note of the slight red, black and gold pattern woven into the hem. Heat creeps its way up my neck and spreads across my cheeks.

_This damn dress_.

I can't help but smile. This dress is solely responsible for our being 'fashionably' late to the party, which will inevitably result in some sort of confrontation with Henry and Catherine once their guests have departed. After all, it is never good to keep a yacht from leaving at its scheduled departure time. From what little I've gathered so far, the harbor master was _not_ pleased.

Casting all thoughts of the harbor master aside, I giggle to myself as I turn to take in the view of the city across the water. I feel an imaginary fingertip trace a soft line from my neck to my shoulder and the small hairs bristle at the ghosted sensation, partly from the mild chill of the evening and partly from the memory.

_I just had to ask Francis to zip my dress, didn't I?_

Not that I minded the careful removal of said dress. What followed was one of the few moments I have been able to let go of the fear Catherine planted in my mind and let myself simply enjoy being with the man I love. Against the rail, removed from the party and its chatter, I close my eyes ‑ recalling Francis' lips on my neck and his finger lightly grazing up my thigh. He had whispered in my ear then, attempting to convince me that we could still make it in time, nipping playfully at a spot he knows all too well to be one of my greatest weaknesses. My eyes roll, recalling his ability to tempt me away from my incessant need to be punctual with the mere flick of his tongue. I open them mid-roll, forcing myself to return to the reality of my surroundings.

The piers at Brooklyn Bridge Park form a friendly halo of light on the horizon. Perhaps I can convince Francis to dress like a normal person with me and go there sometime this week. After so many months of business functions and parties like this one, I just want one night where no one recognizes us ‑ where we might be just a boy and just a girl. I'd love the chance to walk under the changing trees and buy hot chocolate from a cart using small bills, or to stand at the end of one of the piers and see Manhattan from a distance amid the cold grey autumn light.

Lost in my thoughts, I'm startled by the arrival of a large figure. He leans on the railing to my right. With several other open areas at the railing, he obviously has come with the purpose of chatting with me. Turning, I recognize the gruff and bearded face of Dr. Nostradamus.

Fear swells in me at the thought that this man might be capable of knowing what Catherine has said he knows, but I push it aside. _This is madness, remember? Sheer madness._

I know he has come at Catherine's bidding. From inside, she must have seen me standing alone and removed from the rest of the party and decided to seize the opportunity fully. He says nothing, but leans stiffly on the rail. If I want him to leave, I realize I'll need to be the one to start a conversation.

_There's no use beating around the proverbial bush._

"What did you see?" I ask, something of a challenge marking my voice ‑ for him to prove Catherine wrong, for him to tell me something I don't want to hear. "Of Francis?" I clarify, watching him shift between his feet.

"What would make you believe?"

His question bowls into my unsuspecting thoughts, knocking them askew. As I gather them, I mutter a simple, "I don't know," and cast my eyes back out to the dark water.

"You don't know or you don't want it to be true?"

I look up at him and breathe in, thoughts slowly falling into place.

"I have no reason to believe it to be true. Why should I?" My tone becomes defensive and stiff, as though I were defending a creative decision to the board members at Valois and not asking a question that has my entire heart wrapped firmly in its quickly tightening grasp.

"I cannot tell you why, but that's not your real question. Ask it." Not sure what to make of this, I squint my eyes and peer at him quizzically. "Can the future I see for Francis be changed?" he guesses before pausing. "Yes, it can."

All at once, I recognize how little even he understands what he sees and I find myself inclined to pity the man. _He tells me of the future, but mentions that it might not be set?_ The only way Catherine seems to think the days to come might be altered is by removing Francis from all involvement with Stuart Tech. _Does he hold the same opinion?_

"By any other means than letting him go?"

His response is so soft I nearly miss it. "No," he says. "All images of Francis' death are tied to his involvement with your father's business. You will be blamed for his death. You will blame yourself, most of all. The men who came for your father will come for him. I see Francis, barely older than he is now, cold to your touch. You are wed, but childless. Alone in this city ‑ without a friend to comfort you."

I gasp, thoroughly unnerved by his words. Catherine only told me of Francis' death over his involvement with the family business. She pled with me to remove him from his responsibilities immediately, to let her son live a long life with me at his side.

"Please stop," I beg of the man. My knees knock and my legs sway, beginning to give way underneath me. The words nearly choke me as they escape my throat. "It's too cruel."

"Do you think I want to see these things?" The volume of his voice rises alongside its urgency. I detect self-hatred in his mounting anger. "Do you think I want to tell a mother her son will die?"

His countenance changes then, slipping somewhere else without warning. His voice changes quickly, softened but rigid. "One among you, a girl, dead in a week's time. Your friends, circled around. One among you will die before the next frost melts."

His eyes glazed over, I'm not sure what to think. A sudden sense of fear makes me feel sick to my stomach, a desire to retch over the side of the boat increasing as the moments pass. In spite of his body's location next to me, I do not doubt the absence of the doctor's mind. Not even his speech, cold and clear as the night around us, sounds as if it exists in the present. A chill sneaks its way up my spine and to the base of my neck, resulting in an inescapable shudder. I find myself muttering softly to myself under my breath, trying to erase his words as he emerges from his trance.

"Madness. It's madness."

He wakes suddenly then, fully. For such a large, imposing man, he somehow looks broken ‑ almost weakened by what has just happened.

"I'm sorry," his words crack, hands lifting to his face and rubbing his eyes. "I should probably get some water." Turning to me, he politely nods his head. "Mary," he extends softly in his parting. I drain what's left in my glass before rushing after him, catching his arm before he slips back inside.

"You said that some fates could be changed!" My exclamation holds a question, which he acknowledges with his head before his speaks ‑ his voice filled with raw emotion.

"Not this one."

Time seems to slow as I watch him return to the party. I make my way back to the rail, taking note of how the waves lap up the sides of the boat. My gaze locks on some speck of light in the distance and I shut down almost entirely. I refuse to entertain the idea that the doctor might have some metaphysical gift to know what the future holds and, at the same time, I can't help but remember the vacant look of his eyes, the hollow voice that spilled forth as if he spoke from someplace else …

_One among you, a girl, dead in a week's time. _I recall his words and can't help but shudder again. Certainly the man does not know what the future holds.

_It isn't supposed to freeze anytime in the next week._

I avert my eyes, dragging them along the cityscape before me. The quiet hum of the inside opens brightly into loud laughter and conversation before dulling again, indicating that someone has come outside. Looking to my left, I spot Bash with a fresh glass of wine. He extends it to me and reaches for the empty one with his other hand, the two containers trading places with ease in the silence.

"He rattled you, then?" Bash cautiously inquires.

"Yes," I reply. Nodding, I take a sip from the new glass of wine with the hope it might help me to relax a bit. "Yes he did."

Bash stands quietly next to me, seemingly more for support than for anything else.

"Do you know of his gift, then?" I ask, not knowing what else to say.

"I've known him many years." He takes a deep breath before continuing, shaking his head a little and fixing his focus upon some point of interest in the harbor. "He's right more than he's wrong. And when he's wrong, I often wonder if we misinterpreted what he said, and he's too cautious to argue otherwise. Did he tell you something you hope is true?"

"No," I reply curtly. His observations were not what I had hoped for or expected at all.

I want to believe Bash has been drinking too much or that he remembers things differently because he entered the Valois family as an outsider, but that fear ‑ the one that has been neatly corralled into the corner of my mind since my conversation with Catherine ‑ that fear has begun to cry out a little bit louder, straining at its bonds.

* * *

The ring feels foreign on my right hand, much as its left-handed counterpart did last summer. A labyrinth of gold spreads across my ring finger, a large diamond shape at its center, where Francis placed it only a few hours ago. I marvel at how it shines in the light from the bedside table.

He throws on a pair of pajama pants and a white T-shirt, and my eyes dart to the muscles in the plane of his back as the shirt descends over his head. I hate that he has to return to Sacramento tomorrow. Alone, but _for_ me. For my father's company.

"Are you sure you like it?" he asks tentatively as he turns back to face me. I sense he must have debated his choice, especially when considering tradition and the fact it does not overtly indicate an 'engagement', but I'm glad he chose as he did. I already have a traditional ring. This one ‑ it suits us.

Nodding in reassurance, I offer a quick reply. "Yes." I smile up at him, returning my eyes to the glinting gold for a moment. "I love it."

Seeing the relief in his face as I utter those simple words, I can't help but think that his mother and Nostradamus _must_ be mistaken, that there is no possible way that this beautiful man living life beside me could do anything _but_ be happy for the rest of his life. Breathing deeply so as to avoid sighing, I fight the urge to succumb to my fears. I add simply, honestly: "I want you to know, whatever happens, that I love you."

His expression changes to one of puzzlement as he sifts my statement. I know my distracted mental state has not gone unnoticed these last several weeks. I'm grateful that he hasn't pushed me to share, but I am also aware my time has been borrowed ‑ that, sooner or later, he will start to ask questions.

"What's going to happen?" he asks gently, walking back toward the bed. "We're getting married."

The last of these words he speaks with a mixture of awe and incredulity. _We're actually getting married_. I touch the ring again, trying to find the right words to convey the root of my anxieties without telling him all ‑ those things that have been nagging at me since my conversations at the yacht party with Dr. Nostradamus and Bash.

"I know you're scared about something. Talk to me. If it's about my father's plans for Tudor … "

He crawls back in next to me, taking my hand and repositioning the two of us so we lay face-to-face, noses nearly touching, on our bed. His right hand grazes my face softly, an exhibit of his compassion and concern.

"It's not," I scramble to assure him, my fingers picking at the pattern of our quilt ‑ Henry's plan for the bankrupt company far from my mind. "It's _us_. We already have so much. To ask for more … Do you think we're testing fate?" I watch a wry smile appear on his face as he settles in next to me. He doesn't believe in fate or superstition, so I don't know what possessed me to approach the topic at hand from that direction.

"What do you mean?" His question soft, he makes sure to match my gaze.

"By believing we can have everything we ever wanted." My voice drifts and I look away. "Perhaps that privilege is reserved for gods, not women and men. Perhaps there is a terrible price to pay."

"We have devoted our lives to serving our fathers' legacies. There will always be risk involved. We can only do what we think is right, for our families and our employees ‑ for _us_." He speaks with great determination. "You've been alone in your struggles your entire life." He pulls me closer, forcing me again to meet his eyes. "That's over now. I would die for you."

I try to ignore his last words. I know he means them. That is what terrifies me. He leans in to kiss my lips, to distract me from what lies hidden between us.

My phone rings, cutting shrilly into the quiet of our room. I reach for it, frowning because of the hour and wondering who would call this late on a work night. The screen glows bright with Greer's cell number.

"Greer?" I breathe out into the phone. Likely, she and Leith had another fight over their future, particularly concerning which man she'd like to be with in that future. In the midst of bracing myself to defend her happiness and love for Leith yet again, she speaks.

"Mary?" She has been crying and I catch muffled sniffles here and there. My breath catches in my throat at the sound.

"Greer? What is it?" I ask, attempting to mask my frantic curiosity and rising sense of panic.

"There's been an accident," she states as clearly as possible before a sudden sob gives her reason to pause. "It's Aylee."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thank you, thank you, thank you! To everyone who has read, left a review and/or chatted with me about the story in other places, I am so grateful for your continued support of my writing and this crazy little (ever-expanding) universe. Due to scheduling, I nearly forgot to post this today (whoops) - even though it has been done for some time. I'll aim to respond individually to reviews for this chapter and the last one at the same time. But, very much from the bottom of my heart - Thank you! Continue to let me know what you think of the story. It's about to get very interesting ...

**Disclaimer: **I've borrowed heavily from dialogue in 108 of the series. Those words are not mine, though I do suppose any alterations bear my handiwork only insofar as they have been altered.


	4. THREE: The innermost

The door slams shut with a solid thud behind us. As I turn the lock and insert the chain, I hear Mary wrestle her coat onto a hanger in the closet and walk out of the entryway.

Putting my own coat away, I watch her as she pulls out a magazine from the bag she took with her on the drive to my hometown in Connecticut. Nevermind that she didn't touch the magazine the entire trip, choosing instead to stare out the window as the world rolled past. She places it upon the coffee table and straightens the others beneath it.

Since Greer called last week, Mary has barely touched me. Her words have been few and only when absolutely necessary. It's a helpless feeling to know that the woman I love hurts so deeply that I cannot seem to reach her ‑ to somehow cast light into her darkness. In the night, I often hear her whimpers through the bedroom door. In respect for her need of space, I've been sleeping on the sofa. She didn't ask me to, but I know she needs it. After so many days, however, I think that space now threatens to choke her. She can't go on like this. _We_ can't go on like this.

I run my hands absently through my hair as I see her enter the bedroom and shut the door. My fingers work to loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt while I walk through the kitchen, procuring a glass from the cabinet and the bottle of Scotch from the pantry. The refrigerator churns out a few ice cubes, clinking merrily into the glass. As I pour my nightcap, I realize I'm holding my breath. I have the distinct feeling something is about to go horribly awry.

Tipping the drink back, I feel the slight burn in my throat as it descends. I move toward the sofa, wishing for the thousandth time today that she would let me be with her in her grief ‑ that, together, we might move forward instead of lingering in this place too long. Surprisingly, the priest's words after the service come to mind: 'Everyone mourns differently, Francis,' the longtime family friend had remarked as he shook my hand. 'Just give her time. She will come back to you.'

_Just give her time._

I repeat the priest's words as I shed my shoes, shirt and slacks and peel back the covers of my makeshift bed. One last swallow and I set my empty glass on the coffee table next to Mary's expertly arranged periodicals. Reaching for the light, I recall the time I invested when we were little ‑ drawing her from her grief-laden shell little by little until she emerged vibrant and full of life ‑ and I shudder as memories of our experiences last fall come to mind. By some unknown grace of time, despite my fears it would not be so, she came back to me. I have no recourse but to trust she will again.

_She will come back to me._

* * *

I wake early to the distinct rustle of Mary in our closet, hangers knocking against one another, and assume it indicates she's looking for something that doesn't seem to want to be found. Rolling over, I expect her to spill out of our bedroom any moment. Likely, she'll be frustrated. But, hell, I'll take frustration if it means she actually lets herself indulge in a twinge of emotion.

What I don't expect is her walking through the door calmly, toting luggage. I sit up at the sight. She doesn't seem to even notice I'm sitting there, looking at her.

"Mary!" I cry out and she starts, turning her face just long enough to acknowledge my disheveled presence. "What are you doing?"

Her steps halt and she turns herself to face me fully, stiffly stretching herself to her full height.

"As the imminent CEO of Stuart Technologies, I have made a decision. I will lay no claim to Tudor, nor will I move forward with this merger." Confusion floods in, my mind trying to figure out how recent circumstances have led Mary to _this _decision. _Why now?_ "There is too much at stake and I have a duty to those who would set aside everything to help my father's company prosper ‑ those who would even die for me ‑ and I cannot ignore that duty, even to ensure my own personal happiness."

"Mary ‑ " I try to interject, but I find I do not know what to say. "Where are you going?"

She looks briefly at the floor and snatches the handle of the suitcase before continuing through the living room and to the entry to gather her coat. At the door, she pauses and looks back at me.

"I'm walking away from Valois. I'll be in Sacramento until further notice."

"But Mary!" I jump up and run to where she stands, resolute and fingers circling the knob. _This isn't her coming back to me. Quite the opposite, in fact. _"I don't understand."

"Please don't try to stop me. I've made up my mind." Now that I am closer to her face, I notice some of her tells. She won't look me in the eye, hers filling slightly when I reach for her right hand ‑ for the ring I placed upon it just last week.

"Without me? Without telling me?" The question needs to be asked. She has always consulted me before. In fact, before that morning with my mother four weeks ago, she made a point to always be entirely open and honest with me about absolutely everything. _None of this makes sense!_

"I told you I was afraid." My mind scrambles to remember the little that she did share with me over the course of the past weeks ‑ all of which only leads to more questions. _Why would her fears drive her to leave our life for Sacramento? And why now? _I press my thumb into the palm of her hand, seeking to remind her that I'm still here. She continues speaking. "I told you I wasn't sure if this was the right choice for my company."

_What in God's name is she talking about?_

"What does that have to do with leaving me behind? I told you, I have no terms. I only want you."

"Your loyalty should be to Valois. I shouldn't have you traipsing across the country to do my work for me, Francis."

The coldness in her voice is what frightens me most. She has already detached herself from me, from our home, from all that we have dreamt of for our future together.

"Have you not heard a word that I've said? I _love_ you. We can do this ‑ _together_." Even as my right hand reaches up and cradles her cheek, I know that she will slip away. She has no plan to return, to come back to me.

_She must come back to me._

"And that love matters, Francis. It _does_." For the first time in days, I see a glimmer of emotion in the depths of her eyes. A tiny spark of humanity for all the earnestness that pours forth from her lips. "But this company ‑ it is not ours to share. I should have seen that long ago." She gathers herself, her breathing a bit ragged in spite of her stoic façade. "Someday, you will have every word, every moment ‑ for the rest of my life. I love you," her voice cracks. "But I won't let other people die for me."

_She won't let other people die for her? Where did that come from? Is this about … _

"You're not thinking clearly," I insist. She's not the only one who can be earnest. "You're upset, about Aylee. You can't make decisions now, but I can, and I'm never going to let you go."

Smiling sadly, she speaks. "The ticket has already been purchased, Francis. Someone needs to go and tend to things. You were supposed to go, but now you can't because of meetings this week and next." She begins to loosen her grip on my hand. "It's my responsibility."

"Then we will work this out," I try to assure her. "Wait for me while I talk to my father, to see whether I can rearrange some things and go with you. I don't want you to be alone," I stress. "Wait for me."

She nods her head in solemn agreement. "I'll wait for you."

I grab my phone from the counter and go into our bedroom to call my father. It's early, but he'll be up. Especially for this. Our conversation brief, he surprises me by agreeing to my proposal. As I hang up, I walk back into the living room to tell Mary I'm coming with her and that it will only take me a few minutes to pack, since I still have several items of clothing being held at the dry cleaner in Sacramento.

"Mary, I … " Silence greets me and I look up to find an empty room. "Mary?" I ask, a little louder. The bathroom door open and light dark, there is nowhere else she might be. My heart panics at the thought that she left; that, in her mentally unstable state, she has chosen to leave our home. I open the front door and peer into the hallway, finding it empty. I rush to the stairwell and run hastily down its steps to the lobby and out the front door.

As I make my way into the emerging daylight, I see the flap of her coat as she steps into a cab. I run toward the vehicle, yelling her name over and over again. She looks up, defiance and regret intermingled in her expression. My heart hammers and I find my lungs locking up in my chest, unable to take air in or out. I hear a voice that certainly cannot be mine as it echoes her name in anguish through the near-empty street.

Through my bleary eyes, I watch the taxi move away from the curb and into traffic. _Was there someone else with her in the cab?_ I can't help but wonder who it was, the head looking uncannily like that of my older brother.

* * *

I hear a knock at the door and walk over to open it, finding my mother in the hallway. Turning, I gesture for her to come in and return to packing my clothes into the small suitcase I brought with me when I came to my parents' house on Tuesday night. Five days later, I still can't imagine going back to our apartment without Mary.

Five days later, she still hasn't decided how long she wants to stay in Sacramento. With Bash. She claims there's nothing going on between them, that they merely decided to share a cab to the airport, but I can't help but scowl as I question that. _Why, then, did he end up with her in California ‑ particularly when she was so adamant about taking responsibility for her father's legacy on her own terms?_

She only called once, on Wednesday. It was evident she had been drinking in excess, likely with Bash at her side. It was the only time she wasn't thinking clearly enough about her need to stand firm in her decisions. Sobbing, she simply repeated how sorry she was and I, being the broken man that I am, simply repeated back that I wanted her to come home. In time, she muttered a hasty 'I love you' and the line went dead.

And now, four days later, I realize I can't just let her stay there without me. She's hurting and I love her and I refuse to lose her without fighting for her ‑ to the last of me if I must. As a result, I'm packing my things and planning to catch the first afternoon flight Natalia could book for me.

My mother seems cheerful enough when she walks in, but glowers upon seeing my efforts to once more leave my old room ‑ and, consequently, what she sees as my leaving _her_ ‑ behind me.

"You're leaving? So soon?" She steps closer and I see her reach for my arm before deciding to withdraw her hand. "It's only been a few days, Francis! Give her more time and she will come back."

Her admonitions seem hollow, light and unconcerned, and my frustration with her grows. I've tried for days to keep my suspicions at bay, waiting for her to mention something, _anything_, that she could have said to Mary that might have resulted in this outcome ‑ but she has remained strangely silent, speaking only to steer me away from anything concerning Stuart Tech.

"I'm going after her," I reply as calmly as I am able. "To Sacramento."

"You can't do this! Take off for days at a time?" Something in her voice grates on me. She has no right to be upset that I'm going after the woman I love. All she has ever wanted was for me to find love, to be happy. _Does she really think I'm just going to let Mary stay in California indefinitely? _

"I need to, Mother." I reply, teeth gritting with my last measure of patience. "Father told me I could go for a few days and retrieve her. None of this makes sense!" My patience disappears and I turn away from harshly stowing an undershirt to face her.

"What good will it do, to go to her, if she still won't tell you anything? Why would you want to do that to yourself? Didn't you ask her why she left?"

I exhale slowly, attempting to avoid the groan that wants to come out instead.

"She said it was because she wanted to take responsibility for Stuart Tech, that it wasn't something she could share with me." I sit down on the bed for a moment, pulling my fingers forcefully down my face in a quick attempt to dispel the ache in my head from not sleeping.

"And she's right, my son." My mother's voice has softened. "You have your own enterprises to inherit. Your attention should be with them and hers should be with James Stuart's company."

"She made an excuse," I protest. Standing up again, I grab my extra pair of shoes and add them to the bag before zipping it closed. "It's not why she left. I know it."

"Then she lied to you. Why would you want to go to her, only to question every word that comes out of her mouth?"

"Because I love her!" I can't help the loudness of my voice or the desperation that laces it. "In spite of everything she has done, in spite of the lies and the leaving ‑ I miss her and I want her to come home!" My mother recoils at my shouts and I add the one thing I've been wanting to say since the moment I saw something suspicious flit in the depths of her eyes when I arrived Tuesday night and told her that Mary had left for Sacramento.

"I don't know what you told her, Mother, but she is _gone_. I sense your hand in this."

Pulling the suitcase upright, I leave the room without a glance back at my mother. Stephen undoubtedly, per my request, will have a car ready to take me to the airport.

I'm going to bring Mary home.

_I need her to come back to me._

* * *

**For my lovely guest reviewers**, who I freaked out last week by venturing into the dreaded Betrothal of Parallels (as we like to call 110-112) - I'm sorry to have caused you concern. I forget that you do not see my process as much as several of my readers do over at Fanforum. This is my attempt to get to 113 without dragging F/M through the mud (just angst) and no M/B 'romance'. No "pagans" will show up, though I do have ideas for a parallel there. This is more of a parallel universe than an alternate one, but please don't worry. I have a plan and I don't mind a little angst to get us there. Frary = beautiful angst. :)

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for your kind words and continued readership. Work has been so crazy as of late that I have nearly forgotten to post when the middle of the week rolls around! Unfortunately, I steamrolled through my first draft of the next chapter and then haven't had a chance to write since, but I do hope to remedy that this weekend. I'll be getting around to responding to your very kind reviews throughout the day. I know some of you have said not to bother, but I'm so grateful for your reviews that I can't help but respond to them.

**Disclaimer:** Words/conversations have been borrowed from 108 and 109 for the sake of authenticity. They are not mine.


	5. FOUR: To continue on a course

While not as busy as it could be, JFK still bustles with movement in the early afternoon. Bash and I dodge the small children and their overwrought parents, making our way to the baggage claim area. Frustration follows my feet, making each step harder than the last as I come closer to leaving the airport. I want only to take care of what I must and then be on my way back to Sacramento.

Bash snags my suitcase as it rolls its way into sight and brings it over to set it at my side while he waits for his, which comes along shortly. We lock eyes, him silently trying to tell me that this will all work itself out – that we'll find a way to keep Francis away from Stuart Tech – and that there's nothing at all to worry over in the meantime.

I'm grateful for him – Sebastian, that is. This last week, he has proven his friendship in ways I never imagined. At Aylee's funeral, I told him I had plans to leave the following morning and he didn't ask questions or threaten to tell Francis of my intentions. He just nodded and said that he intended to come with me.

Granted, he didn't make it two minutes into the flight before he asked why I felt so strongly that I needed to leave behind my fiancé and the life I had built so painstakingly over the last year in New York. As I told him of Nostradamus' words, of the prediction concerning Aylee's death, he simply placed his hand lightly over mine in understanding and listened.

Because, you see, he believes that the doctor's words have weight. I did not have to convince him of that. And he also had his own reason to run.

"Your mother is not going to like that you're back here, Bash," I say quietly as we make our way from the baggage claim to look for the driver of the car Kenna arranged for us.

"It doesn't matter," he mumbles. "We'll be back in California soon enough."

That is, assuming that Henry stops threatening me with lawsuits over breaking my employment contract – or that Earl changes his mind about my proposal to cancel the merger. Even if Henry requires me to stay behind in my official capacity at Valois, Bash will return as the new liaison between our fathers' companies. I want Francis nowhere near Sacramento.

I only need 24 hours, preferably without seeing Francis. The moment I see the blue of his eyes and the pain I know I have caused by my leaving without a full explanation, I might not have the nerve to go back. 'Twenty-four hours,' I remind myself with a scraping gulp of air. Everything in me aches to see him – to let him hold me as I cry over Aylee's cold, still body and this horrible mess of superstition and fear. My body longs for his, my ears to hear the timbre his voice.

But I know what he will say. He'll turn to me and utter the words, 'Come home.' Though thoroughly inebriated when I called earlier in the week, his repetition of those words has resounded countless times through my mind in the days since.

I brace myself for what will surely be a difficult time in the city and straighten my body, forcing myself to exude confidence where none exists. Avoiding him will not happen by accident. If I know him at all, he will seek me out the moment he knows I'm here. I must remain firm in my decisions – absolutely firm – and expedient in my actions.

Turning the corner, we see a line of drivers with small whiteboards in hand. I notice that my skin crawls a bit as I skim the group, seeking for the transportation Kenna said she would arrange. I spy our names and look up to meet the face of our driver.

Unfortunately, it appears Kenna has overstepped. Francis stands before me.

* * *

I don't know when I've had a quieter reception. Even upon meeting for the first time as adults, a little more than a year ago, Francis at least spoke to me. Today, however, his refusal to say anything at all contrasts sharply with the car's quiet rhythm as it rolls across the pavement. Fifty minutes of silence as we travel toward Midtown and the Valois offices.

Fifty minutes of my being sandwiched between the two brothers in the backseat. Fifty minutes of my heart beating faster than recommended by any reputable physician. Luckily, I'm somehow managing to keep my breathing in check. Nothing would be worse than to have a panic attack right before going toe-to-toe with Henry. I must do everything in my power to put forth an image of strength, not of weakness.

With Francis sitting next to me, however, everything within me feels weak.

As if sensing my agitation, he covers my hand with his own. I look up to meet his eyes and nearly break at the mixture of love and hurt that lurk within them.

I hate myself for putting him through this. _When will this ever go back to being normal?_

'Normal' might never happen again, I have to remind myself. Nonetheless, my first order of business needs to be securing a future for him – whether or not it includes me. I can't live in a world where he does not exist, where his eyes cannot meet mine and read my every thought. I must ensure his safety before I even think of anything else.

My heart slows a bit as I remember my reasons for doing what I have done. I hope that, when this has passed, he will be willing to forgive me and still pursue the dreams we have of living our lives together.

_Can we still have those dreams? Can we still have that life?_

Tears brim in my eyes as we pull to the curb in front of the building that houses Valois Security. I breathe deeply in response to the fact that I suddenly _haven't_ been breathing. The thought of a life without this man – my best friend, my _love_, my partner – proving too much in the moment.

Bash slides from the car and through the open door, extending a hand to assist me. Francis stops me by placing a hand on my knee.

"Go tell Father that you and Mary have arrived," he speaks up for the first time, addressing Bash. "I need to speak with Mary alone. She'll be up in a few minutes."

I watch Bash close the door, my eyes wide at the thought of being alone with Francis for any length of time when all of my intentions had been to come and leave again as quickly as possible.

"Is Bash all right?" he asks when we find ourselves alone. Startled from not expecting him to be concerned about Bash, I still manage to nod my head 'yes'.

"He had his own reasons for leaving," I murmur.

Reaching a hand up to cradle my face he inquires, "And you … Are you all right?" Instinct kicks in and, for a moment, I forget my fears and lean into his palm and exhale.

"Yes," I respond, wishing I could stay as I am – but I know that I can't. My moment of hopeful forgetfulness flees and my worries once more crowd my thoughts. I'm growing acutely aware that my legs will not support my attempts to stand in a few minutes, unless I extract myself quickly. I start toward the door closest to me.

"I knew you'd come back to me." He looks relieved as the words leave his lips. Involuntarily, my body halts its movement and slowly turns to face him. "If you hadn't, if Kenna hadn't caught me on the way to the airport, I'd be on a flight right now." The bruising under his eyes indicates he hasn't been sleeping and I hear fatigue in his voice. He reaches for my hand, rubbing firmly at the joint between thumb and palm. The small gesture overwhelms me, kindling something in me I've denied myself for weeks now and reminding me of one irrefutable fact:

_I did this._

"Francis – please don't," I plead, pushing away from him and moving back toward the door of the car. "Nothing has changed."

"Everything has changed." His tone shifts to a steely coldness, taking me aback. I glance over my shoulder and see the anguish clearly set in his eyes. "I love you! We share a home and are engaged to be married! I promised to stand by you forever, against anyone, even my father, and to pursue those things that you hold dear to your heart. And then I wake in the morning to find you leaving – telling me you can't share what you hold dearest to your heart with me – and taking Bash with you."

"This isn't Bash's fault," I state adamantly. Regret and shame spread their warmth on their way up my neck. I recognize that I've put Bash in danger, too. If not with his mother and extended family, than with his younger brother who won't believe him when he says there is nothing more than friendship between us.

"Tell me what happened," he counters. His expression softens a little. I grasp for words.

"My friend died. My heart broke," I reply, trying to mask my true emotion. "I needed to control _something_."

"But why did you leave?" His volume raises. "Explain to me how Aylee's death made you decide you couldn't share your father's company with me. Explain to me how it made you decide you could leave _me_, fearing for your well-being and alone in _our home_. Give me an honest answer." An exasperated sigh slips out after the unyielding attempt to understand. "I deserve that." He runs his fingers through his hair and I have to stop my own fingers from reaching up to still his.

"You do," I manage to say calmly. "But I need to – "

A rap at the window interrupts my attempt to tell Francis that I'll meet him at home later. In the hours that lay between, maybe I can convince Catherine to be reasonable, that telling him everything will only help us in our efforts to keep him safe.

_God, I just want to go home!_

The realization slams into my heart, knocking air from my lungs in its path. Sacramento will never be home. To distract myself, I reach over and press the toggle switch. The window slides downward to reveal Henry's assistant, Joy.

"Mr. Valois would like to see you immediately, Ms. Stuart," she says kindly.

We both move to exit the car, Francis giving the driver instructions to take our bags to our building and leave them with William. I step to the curb, inhaling deeply of the autumn air and attempting to steady myself before walking inside. Francis comes up behind me, resting a hand tentatively at the small of my back. A peace offering, if merely a temporary one.

As we step through the elevator doors and begin to lurch upward, Joy tells Francis that Henry has left instructions with Natalia for an afternoon meeting.

"I don't have an afternoon meeting," he replies, obviously a bit puzzled. "Natalia canceled everything because I had planned to fly to California."

I watch Joy as she fiddles with her bottom sweater button and then steels herself to look up at Francis. She has my sincerest sympathies for working so closely with Henry.

"I was just trying to be polite, sir. He only wants to see Ms. Stuart."

* * *

_There is no way out._

Exiting Henry's office, I make my way to mine. The meeting did not go well. Henry still insists I comply with my contract, requiring me to work for Valois for at least another year, and Earl still wants to move ahead as planned. I know it to be the best option for my father's company in my heart, but it pains me to have Earl come to the same conclusion and thwart my efforts to avoid Francis being involved in the slightest. My mind churns, searching for something that can be done.

I hear my cell phone rattle on the desk, its vibration indicating an incoming text message. I glance at the screen, taking note of Catherine's name and the truncated beginnings of "How did it go? You know … "

Opening the full message, I finish scanning its contents. She still doesn't want me to tell Henry or Francis about why I chose to change everyone's plans. I rub my hand across my face, wishing it could dispel this horrid situation and send it far, far away from me. Everything aches after a long day in airports and cars. _I just want to go home_.

And, suddenly, I realize that I can.

* * *

It seems strange to tiptoe into my own apartment, but it also seems strange to be here. It's almost as though, in the days since I left, nothing has remained the same.

_And, yet …_

The magazine I took to Connecticut sits right where I left it on the coffee table. The same dishes still sit in the sink. Francis' scotch sits out on the countertop. Confusion settles in.

_Did he not stay here?_

My mind wrestles with the possibility. _Why wouldn't he have stayed at home? _

But, when I'm honest with myself, I know. This is _our_ home and it always will be – for both of us. When he hasn't been here, traveling on business or out all night with Bash, I have often found myself calling Greer or Aylee to come over and stay the night. Once or twice, I have even gone to his parents' to escape the silence, to have family around. It's too quiet with one of us away. Too easy to feel alone.

I walk around the living room, touching the back of the sofa and taking a long look at Francis's chair. The makeshift bed Francis had used before I left remains, the blankets disheveled and the pillows askew. All at once, it both feels like I've been dying of thirst to be here in the familiar and like the entire place has become a foreign land. The bedroom door still lies open, ajar just as it was when I left. Upon entering, I find the bed turned down and empty hangers littering the floor by the closet.

Everything in its place. _Just as I left it_.

"Mary."

Caught up in my inventory of the apartment's state, I didn't notice the click of the lock as the tumbler turned or his footsteps as they crossed the wooden planks. But I hear him now.

His voice lands soft and gentle, though he has every right to be angry with me. He sounds defeated and I can't help but feel the same. I want nothing less than to let myself fall into his arms and never leave. _Maybe if I tell him why I believe, maybe then …_

I turn to face him and am not quite prepared for what I find – the man before me appears broken to the uttermost. Nonetheless, the love in his eyes overwhelms me. In place of the anticipated anger, I only see concern. He reaches for me, stretching out one arm so he might touch my elbow.

My body screams at me to stay put, but I flinch regrettably and back away. The backs of my knees bump against the bedframe and I wince at the pain I know will become bruises tomorrow.

And, standing there, with his eyes locked on mine, I realize I don't care what Catherine wants. I'm already losing this, losing _him_. It has been too long since I last felt his lips, since his finger's tracing of my hands left tickles in its wake. It has been too long since I felt safe.

"I'm glad you came home." My words fill the void between us, contradicting my desire to secure that space with silence. In my fatigue, the sentiment comes out sounding hollow.

"My father told me about your plans for Bash," he starts. I can see he desires to keep from yelling at me, his words forceful and direct in his frustration. "This is insane! He isn't qualified to do what you're asking him to do. How far will you go to keep me out of this? How much risk are you willing to place upon your father's company?"

_I need to tell him._

Breathing in, I break the quiet. "Please, Francis – hear me out. I want to explain myself." I pause and look to him for affirmation of my words. "I want you to understand why I left you, why I can't share my father's company with you. It wasn't for lack of love or ability or trust in you." He appears to relax a little and I take in a short burst of air, knowing I must finish now or I never will. "It was because I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

He replies quickly with the exact words I had anticipated, "That makes no sense."

He steps closer, within the reach of my arms, stopping again as I continue. I scrounge up every ounce of courage I possess.

_He needs to believe me. _

"Nostradamus had a vision – of your death, brought about by your involvement with my father's company."

"Nostradamus?" he asks incredulously. "The doctor? My mother's friend?" I watch as the information settles itself upon him. "You made these decisions based on some vision? You left me over a prophecy?" Each word lands increasingly louder and reflects his agitation. I expect him to begin yelling at any moment, but he somehow refrains.

"One that I believe!" I shout back, earnestly trying to make him see my side of things. "I couldn't take the risk of being wrong!"

Drunkenness aside, I have managed to keep tears at bay for nearly a week. Here, in our home, with him at last before me, they begin to wrench themselves free and spill their way down my cheeks.

"This is madness."

_He doesn't believe! _The reality settles on me and I fear I will not be able to change his mind, even knowing I will tell him everything in the minutes to come. I can barely breathe through the tears, but I swallow my discomfort and focus all of my attention on trying to make him believe me.

"I know – I thought so, too," I add. "I didn't believe it. I didn't want to, but there were those who said Nostradamus' visions had weight. Even before he predicted Aylee's death … " As my words trail off, I look up to see Francis' face. Ashen. Suspicious. His eyes narrow and his brows knit together in their attempt to sort through all of this.

"Her accident?" he clarifies.

"Days before it happened," I nod, stifling a sob. I can only hope it might be enough to convince him.

"When my father finds out … " he begins. "When the stockholders … " Neither thought can be finished. I know what he intends to say, that this would ruin me. I'd be declared unfit to make decisions for any company, regardless of whom it belonged to.

"No – you can't tell anyone! Your father would ruin Dr. Nostradamus. Not to mention … "

I know the exact moment when it dawns on him, that little ounce of clarity lighting itself in his eyes as the lines of his face relax just slightly.

"My mother," he breathes out in understanding. "She was behind this as well."

Rushing to assure him, I reach out for his hand. A momentary lapse of sanity, of which I become fully aware as soon as I feel his skin stretched out smooth beneath my fingers. "She only did what she had to because she loves you. She would do _anything _for you, and I would, too." I let my hand linger, not ready to pull away yet – my body leaning more and more into his with every second that passes. "I will not be the cause of your death," I add gently. "I couldn't bear it."

"And your father's company? Shall it fail for lack of resources or leadership?" he asks, pulling back slightly to gauge my reaction.

"No – of course not." I exhale. _Of course not!_

"Because my father is determined to keep you around. He wants Stuart and he wants Tudor. Mary–" The light has dimmed in the ebbing day, leaving us in a near-dark room. "You cannot let superstition or fear rule your life. My mother is wrong to believe in this nonsense!"

"No!" I interject. "She was right to believe. Aylee is _dead_, Francis. _I believe!_" He takes stock of my frenzied state.

"I'll talk to the doctor. He'll say he didn't mean what my mother took it to be, and I'll make my mother see things sensibly." It's as if he's trying to comfort a child. _Perhaps I have lost it. _My heartbeat has become erratic and my breathing more difficult, the longer this conversation has continued. "Whether I believe it or not, this is _my_ risk," he assures me. "Once you get past the grief of Aylee's death – you'll see."

Aylee's death. He thinks this all rests with Aylee's death. His mother did say he was relentless when it came to protecting what we have. I certainly can't blame him for that. I'm doing the same, without hesitation.

I sigh, my energy long exhausted by the day. No fight remains within me. Not tonight.

Though it can be no later than six o'clock in the evening, he pushes my coat off of my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. He peels back the sheets and helps me into them. On his way to the other side of the bed, he removes the shirt from his back, not bothering with the buttons. Climbing between the sheets beside me, he pulls me to him – curving his body around mine, which now shivers and tries to dispel its anxious thoughts – and I can't help but wonder how I ever thought I could heal without the weight of these arms wrapped around my middle and his breath at my neck, slowing little by little into sleep.

"Francis?" I test to see if he has lost consciousness yet. A noncommittal grunt meets my ear. "Will you ever stop loving me?"

The words catch in my throat, emerging tentatively, but I feel his arms wrap a little tighter, as if to be sure that I am indeed here. "I won't," come some of the firmest words I've ever heard him speak. "Ever."

* * *

In the early morning, I extract my body from its tangled state and move in the dim light toward the closet. Sleeping in my clothes has no doubt left some interesting creases in my skin, but I feel refreshed for the first time since I heard Greer's voice on the other end of the line.

Unsure of what the day might hold, I have the distinct suspicion that I won't be returning to Sacramento after all. I do, however, still have every intention of sending Bash in my place.

I reach for a gray patterned dress I haven't worn in months and remember wearing it when Francis proposed last summer, for the sake of getting his father to help me. Though this morning will be chilly, the trees rapidly changing their hues, I decide to wear it and begin rummaging for a pair of leggings and fresh underthings. No one will expect me to be in the office today. I have no meetings scheduled, as I had Kenna cancel everything the moment I left town last week. Regardless, Henry made his expectations perfectly clear – that if I needed to take time to clear my head, I should take it and then return fully committed to Valois and the planned merger – and I plan to take full advantage of those expectations.

Pulling yesterday's shirt over my head, I decide to spend the day trying to find my way out of this mess. While Francis and I have reached a tentative truce in light of my honesty, I don't expect he'll be too forgiving when I move ahead with the particulars of excluding him from my work with Stuart.

My fingers work at the button on my pants and it slowly gives way through the tight hole. Before I can get them off, however, I feel the soft warmth of bare flesh against my back and a pair of arms settles loosely around my waist. My skin breaks out in gooseflesh and, for a brief moment, I forget to breathe. Francis's chin comes to rest on my right shoulder, disappearing briefly as he presses a light kiss to the flesh.

"Good morning," he says huskily. My eyes close, acknowledging the man behind me.

_God, I've missed this_.

I turn in his arms, my skin continuing to erupt at the first soft touches I've allowed since the night he asked me to marry him – _really_ marry him – and I have a difficult time corralling any coherent thought. The light from the closet shines weakly into our room, the curtains expertly blocking out most of the emerging light of the day.

He brings his hands up to cradle the sides of my face and kisses my forehead.

"It's good to have you home," he adds hoarsely, keeping his eyes trained to mine while letting his hands wander a little. I realize that, as much as I have longed for him, it doesn't seem right to trade the quiet of this moment for our usual physical intimacies. Too much still remains unspoken between us.

"Francis? I–" he cuts me off with a brief graze of my lips. The feel of the contact lingers, resulting in that feeling of intoxication his touch alone gives me.

"I know," he says tenderly. "Whenever you're ready, I'll be here."

He pads his way out of the room toward the bathroom, leaving me to myself. I grab for the clothing I chose earlier and dress hastily, trying to erase the feel of him. There's no use in denying the truth of how he affects me or how deeply I love him. I can only hope to find a way this will all work together both to save his life and to strengthen my father's company.

Making my way to the kitchen to start the tea kettle, I hear him humming softly to himself, presumably while brushing his teeth. The corners of my mouth twitch upward as I listen to the sounds of home and busy myself with starting the day.

We'll figure this out – there has to be a way.

* * *

Tension and strain mark every inch of my body as I peel myself out of the car and head into our building as the daylight fades. I nod tiredly at William, who opens the door and helps me to the elevator.

For the twenty-second time since leaving the office, I check my phone to see whether Francis has responded to any of my phone calls or text messages. That I haven't heard from him since he left his father's office has begun to be a point of concern.

I clamber through the doors and they shut in front of me as the contraption lifts me to the eighth floor.

_Damn it, Henry!_

In the shock of his announcement this afternoon, I lost track of Francis. Kenna relayed that she had seen him sneak out while I yelled at Henry and then set out to work on the details that inevitably needed to be sorted. When I finally did walk out of the building, four whole hours had passed since I had last seen him – and when I had, his countenance had been darkly filled with an agony that I had unintentionally caused.

The elevator stops at the fourth floor, its doors opening to reveal a woman headed to a friend's unit on the top floor. We exchange pleasantries and the doors slide shut once more. In the three floors that follow her addition to the car, I somehow manage to convince myself that Francis and I will be honest about the situation and somehow make our way past it – just as last night's efforts proved us to be capable of doing.

The doors open again and I step out onto the landing of our floor, looking into the corner at our front door. An eerie silence settles in about me as I move toward it and slip my key into the lock. Turning the handle, I realize everything has been tidied. Catherine undoubtedly sent Annette over, knowing we would be with Henry in the office today. A lamp shines brightly from the table alongside the sofa.

Walking through the apartment, however, I notice one distinct difference from when I left this morning – Francis is nowhere to be found.

"Francis?" I call out, wondering if perhaps he might be in the bedroom resting or hiding in some remote corner. But I hear nothing in response. My phone, freshly dug again from my bag, also has no answers for me. Deciding I can do nothing but wait for him to come home, I lower myself onto the couch and reach for a magazine to keep me occupied.

I wrack my brain for possible places he might have gone in an effort to rid himself of his anger after his father told him that the board, taking its cue from my dismissal of Francis from all things regarding Stuart Tech, had decided to try out a new head of operations. My mind still refuses to process Henry's stupidity. I have no idea what he's trying to gain by ousting his perfectly capable son for someone else, but I have never seen Francis so angry or hurt – it might has well have been by my own hand.

Turning the page to an article about the city's best dog-walkers, my thoughts continue to drift and mentally wander the streets to places he might have gone. The minutes stretch on into hours and, as the clock nears midnight, I pick up my now-stiff body and make my way across the room to lock the front door. I lean against it, tears joining my cheeks as the one thought I've pushed aside all day bubbles right back to the surface of my mind:

_This is all my fault._

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Thanks for being patient with this chapter, y'all. I had meant to be further than I am, but a thesis-related deadline and family coming into town for a few days (and a bunch of work) threw me off my schedule. Hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer: **This chapter includes a bunch of dialog taking nearly verbatim from 109. It's not mine, but belongs to the writers. I'm just using it for my own purposes.


	6. FIVE: Support

_Twenty-seven days._

The realization of just how much time has passed hits me as I pull open the door to my favorite Hartford hole-in-the-wall bar. I stomp my boots on the doormat and the heat seeps out, mixing with the frigid cold of early December. Light, swirling flakes follow me inside.

I don't know the last time I was here, my parents having left their West End home and moved to New York nearly two years ago. In the six years that preceded my father's decision to relocate his company, I only stopped in while home for the holidays – preferring instead to stay as close as possible to my apartment in Cambridge. The establishment's owner, Theo, waves from behind the bar and reaches for an old-fashioned glass. I've never ordered anything but whiskey when here, yet I'm still surprised at the man's memory.

"Francis," he greets gruffly as I walk toward the counter, hanging my coat and scarf on one of the wall's many pegs. He treats me as if I were in just yesterday. "What'll it be tonight? We just got in a case of The Ships. You interested?"

He eyes me and I nod my head in response, taking a seat. The room nearly empty, I have my pick of the stools. His skilled hand pours the amber liquid into the glass and then slides it before me. "Thanks, man," I mutter. Scrambling, I try to remember what I know of the his life. "How are Cara and the kids?"

Leaning against the back cabinets, Theo folds his arms and begins to chuckle. I look up in surprise as he observes, "You've got a good memory." Then, he adds, "They're good, kid. They're real good."

After twenty-seven days, the whiskey has begun to lose its potency. The first sip slides into my throat and I barely notice its flavor. Regardless, I thank the barkeep and continue to drink as the thoughts I'd like to keep at bay decide they no longer want to remain there.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, telling me I have a new message. I retrieve it and see Mary's name on the screen. Every day, without fail, she leaves the same message. When I return to my hotel this evening, I'm sure I'll press play only to hear her breathe out her nerves and say, "I know you don't want to talk, but I love you and I miss you." And then she'll pause and add gently, "Please come home."

_Twenty-seven times._

No details about the company. No news of the family. Just the same message, day after day after day.

The only time I allowed her to hear my voice was the morning of that first day, when I called to let her know that I wasn't dead and lying in an alleyway elsewhere in the city. She had been crying for most of the night, best I could tell. I told her I loved her, that my resignation letter had been sent to Joy for my father to have on record, and that I didn't want her to look for me. I didn't want to come home until I had a plan. Then, I hung up.

_Coward_.

The phone mocks me from where I set it on the counter.

_Would it really be so bad to call her?_

"You okay, kid?"

Theo's words cut sharply into my mental fog. I forgot he was here, in _his_ bar.

"Yeah, Theo," I remark. Offering him a weak smile and a shrug, I swallow another mouthful of whiskey. "I'm just trying to figure out what to do with my life."

He nods and leaves me be, venturing to the other end to help a customer wanting a refill on her vodka soda. I look around and realize this place has changed very little over the years, its warm wood-paneled walls a sharp contrast to the bright lights of Vegas a few weeks back.

Out of the periphery of my vision, I watch the front door open and close, bringing with it some fresh snowflakes and a chilly draft of air. My hand reaches for my glass again and rocks it back and forth so the contents swirl and mix.

"Well," I hear a familiar voice begin. "Of all the gin joints!" A soft laugh follows and I turn, finding myself greeted by a tired but smiling pair of eyes.

Until this moment, I didn't realize how much I had missed both seeing a familiar face and having that face belong to someone who actually knows me. Everyone I had seen in Sacramento as I collected my things, in Vegas as I gambled with my father's money, in the mountains west of Denver as I skied away days and drank away nights – none of those people had known me. And, in light of recent events, I think I allowed my true self to disappear in those weeks. In its place, a much different, diluted version of myself emerged.

"Lola!" I exclaim, hopping up to help her with her coat as she settles herself on the stool next to my own. "What on earth are you doing here?"

She sighs, lifting her elbow onto the counter and leaning her head into the palm of her hand. "Oh, you know." Rolling her eyes, she adds, "Frederick."

After all our years of friendship, that's all she needs to say for me to understand. Her older brother has perennially gotten himself into every possible type of trouble known to a young man. With Lola's family history being as riddled as it is with rumors of mob members, none of Frederick's escapades have ever surprised me.

"What has he done this time?" I ask, signalling for Theo to come over.

"Well," she plunges into her tale. "A Manhattan, Theo – thanks," she requests when he appears to take her order. "He owes someone a lot of money, I guess? He said if he didn't get it to them by today, they were going to start taking his fingers as interest." She shrugs, trying to appear unaffected even though I can tell the situation has unnerved her. "Mom and Dad are abroad and Gams and Pop have refused to help any of us out of sticky situations after – "

Her eyes widen and she stops abruptly, gratefully testing out the cocktail just delivered to her. She shakes her head as I feel my eyebrows lift in the unspoken question. "It doesn't matter what it was. They won't help. And so, it somehow fell to me to bail him out of his mess. Whatever." She pauses, her voice quieting. "I needed to come anyway, to take care of some things."

She finishes rattling and then falls fully silent, nursing her drink.

"Like what?" I ask, noting her uncharacteristic silence but hoping to keep her talking.

"Oh, you know … " Her voice trails. "My parents asked me to check in on the house, so I thought I'd do it on my way to Providence. I always try to make it back this time of year." Turning to me, she diverts the conversation away from herself. "Why are you in town? I thought your parents finally sold the West End house?"

"They did," I reply. "Nearly a year ago. I actually interviewed with a civil engineering firm this afternoon."

"Francis!" Her voice springs back to life with enthusiasm, slapping the back of her hand into my shoulder in congratulations. "That's amazing! How did it go?"

"Well enough, I suppose." I twist my glass in my hand, refusing to look up at her.

"You don't sound excited," she states. The decidedly lackluster response surprised even me. It takes a moment to figure out what to say and, in the meantime, she just sits there – waiting.

"I have always wanted to be a civil engineer," I affirm. "And I always kicked against my parents' plans for me to take over my father's business, but … " The words fail me for a moment as I continue to seek for the right ones. I glance up sideways from my whiskey glass at Lola. "Something changed. I actually enjoyed my job. I was actually _good _at my job. And then, of course, there was …" I can't complete the sentence, so Lola does it for me.

"Mary." She nods somberly, a sad smile curving at her lips. "There was Mary."

"Yeah," I breathe out. "There was Mary."

"She misses you," Lola says so quietly that I almost miss it. Her eyes lock on the row of bottles behind the bar and lose some of their focus.

"I know," I mumble and trace a crude carving in the wood by my drink with my finger. "She calls me every day to tell me."

"You could call her too, you know. She'd love to hear from you," she entreats.

"I'm not ready," I share. It's the honest answer. "To everyone else, I'm a young man who has everything: money, freedom, a world of opportunity to explore. But when I think of all that, I only feel … " I search for the best word. My finger stills as I settle on it. "Emptiness."

I give voice to my reality – a difficult reality – and feel the sting of its singular blow to my pride. "I can't bring her into that, Lola. I _won't_. Pathetic, isn't it?" Glancing up, I find her gaze still unfocused.

"Well," Lola shifts her tone and her body. "I hope not, because I feel exactly the same – aside from the fact that I still have a job." She smiles, trying to lighten the mood. "We're a pathetic pair, aren't we?"

I respond in kind with a laugh. "We always were, Lola." A thought enters my mind, remembering something that Mary said after she spent an evening with Lola. I hesitate, but ask my question anyway. "Does it bother you, my being with Mary?"

"What?" She finally brings her face round to meet mine, the query having taken her by surprise. Shaking her head, she gives an emphatic 'No'. "Collin? Absolutely. But not you – we just share a lot of history, you know? Makes me feel awful, now, when I think of Mary."

"We do share history," I agree. "A lot of it in this very bar, if I remember correctly. When we were we here last, Lola?" I inquire, trying to steer our conversation away from the two people who hold the greatest power over our hearts.

"Spring break," she responds quietly. "Nearly three years ago."

"Really? That long? Well!" I laugh, startling her. She always did have a mind for the details.

* * *

I wake in the middle of the night, uncomfortable in my current position. Rolling over, I spy the time on the LED alarm clock on the nightstand. _2:19._ The sofa stretches out beneath my limbs, lumpier than I had anticipated when I offered Lola the bed several hours ago. She wanted to leave, but the snow had begun to accumulate and the roads quickly iced over. I refused to let her go alone to her parents' cold, empty home.

Instead, we walked the quarter-mile back to the hotel where I had arranged a room for the night. She told me the latest news from New York, most of which centered on my parents' latest and very public arguments. Some of that had filtered in through my mother's phone calls, but I hadn't heard most of it. One news item of note was that, in my absence, Mary had moved back in with my parents. From how Lola spoke of it, Mary has made every effort to keep my brothers distracted from all the shouting and name-lobbing. I'm grateful for that.

Upon arriving at the room, we spent another hour reminiscing about a variety of parties from our high school and college years. We laughed at our teenage foolishness as memories of spin the bottle surfaced and we cried at the memories of Aylee getting drunk and loosening up enough that she would sing karaoke or drunk dial her parents. Our stories exhausted and our stomachs filled with the bottle of wine we picked up on our way to the hotel, we fell asleep early.

The depressive effect of the alcohol now having worn off, I know I'll struggle to get back to sleep. Every night since I left New York has been like this – drinking more than I should, waking in the middle of the night, staving off reflection-based insomnia.

Not that any of my efforts actually _help_. She follows me everywhere with her honey-colored eyes and her smooth, moonbeam skin. _Twenty-eight nights._

It would certainly be easier if there were no her. I would still have my job, for one. For another, I wouldn't be sleeping on the couch with Lola in a bed in the same room.

The moment the thought crosses my mind, I recoil. As much as I'm not very happy with Mary or what her decisions have led to, I could never betray her in such a manner. Lola and I may have a long and crazy history, but it remains in the past. No woman has held a dim candle next to the fiery beauty that sleeps next to me each night, who dances wildly in our kitchen while covered in flour, who supports me in a way that no one else has ever dared – who calls me every day to tell me she loves me, whether or not I pick up the phone.

I stand up and tiptoe over to the window. Light filters in through the commercial curtains, horridly rough things that my mother would undoubtedly grimace at upon first sight. Breathing deeply, I watch as the heat of my breath gathers against the cold pane. The snow, having stopped in the last hour or so, reflects the glow of the street lights into the gray sky. The world outside appears peaceful and something in its nature settles something deep inside of me.

_I'll call tomorrow_.

* * *

Just before 6 a.m., I hear the distinct sound of a newspaper being slid under the door. Looking up, I see Lola already dressed and hurriedly making up the bed. She dips her head to peer under the bed and I catch her muttering of a few choice words followed by the word, 'shoe'.

"Looking for something?" I query. Sitting up, I add, "I heard something about a shoe."

She glances up and flushes. "Did you see where it went? I didn't just imagine using it to illustrate smashing cockroaches that one time we went to Mexico, did I?"

"No," I shake my head gravely and fight not to crack a smile. "No, that happened." The smile tugs at the corners of my mouth and the grin spreads wide before I can stop it and the accompanying laughter.

Lola's confusion at trying to remember our night and find her shoe dissolves quickly into a soft chuckle.

"Please just reassure me there was nothing else that happened – anything at all I might think I imagined?" Her statement ends with the ending lilt of a question.

"No," I assure her and bend down to wrench her shoe free from its hiding place under the side table next to the sofa. "Nothing you won't be able to face the office with tomorrow."

Rising, I watch her gather her coat, gloves and scarf to shield her against the cold outside. She steps toward the door, then turns awkwardly.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye, then," she says, turning slightly toward me as she reaches for the doorknob. "Good luck on your interviews."

"And you," I reply with a nod. "Back in the city."

"Don't remind me." She rolls her eyes, stepping to the side for better access to the door and revealing the newspaper delivered only a short while ago.

A picture of my parents from one of last year's charity fundraisers draws my attention. My jaw drops at the headline, an exclamation of surprise escaping my lips – "Valois-Medici divorce proceedings reveal infidelity, embezzling: Solid pre-nup guarantees Medici gets nothing."

I fall forward onto my knees, stretching for the paper. Lola, shocked, moves backward to figure out what is happening.

"Did you know of this?" My hands shake as I ask, holding out the paper for her to see.

"I had no idea." The color drains from her face. "It can't be true."

"I had no intention of returning until I knew what I was supposed to do," I mumble to myself. "But, if I don't, I'll be letting my father ruin my mother."

Everything within me steels at the revelation. No choice remains.

"Lola?" Standing with her hand at the door, I hate to impose – but I also don't want to travel back to the city alone. "Could you wait five minutes?"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Thank you so much to everyone still reading this story! So sorry that this chapter was pretty heavily delayed. I hit the end of what I had written in advance and then life (particularly work) got crazy, so my writing time disappeared for a stretch. That, and I wanted to make sure this chapter hit just the right tone that I wanted, so ... Thank you for your patience! Please let me know what you think.

**Disclaimer: **Quite a bit of dialogue was lifted/altered from 112/"Royal Blood". That does not belong to me. The changes and the plot of the chapter itself, sure, but not the direct dialogue itself.


	7. SIX: Reserved for a future occasion

_Twenty-eight days_.

Sighing, I stretch out my hand for the file Kenna extends.

"This is everything?" I ask wearily. In spite of the fact that I have been at the office for three hours and several strong cups of black tea, my mind has yet to awaken. As the weeks have worn on, I feel increasingly more a shell of myself.

"It is." She replies without looking up from her desk, typing away at her latest communication with the headhunter tasked to help us find a permanent replacement for Aylee. "All the paperwork for Bash to legitimately and permanently take on the role you've carved out for him at Stuart, beginning next week – when the company becomes fully yours – it's all there."

I watch as her typing slows, her eyes scan the contents, and she taps the mouse button to send the email. She glances up and her eyebrows raise as she takes in my haggard appearance. Her professional expression softens into one of concern.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Mary?"

I nod apathetically, tucking the folder under the wing of my arm, and turn my back to her before muttering to myself, "I don't have much other choice."

"Mary!" Greer suddenly and cheerfully flanks me to the right, coming out of her office. "I need to talk to you about Henry's latest requests … " We move over to a table in the common area of the office, near the elevators, and pull out seats for ourselves.

She starts discussing Henry's latest tactic to make himself appear the saint in his and Catherine's divorce proceedings. Diane has been instructed to disappear for the foreseeable future and Henry tasked Greer with making sure we have a plan for how to keep the company's image untarnished by all he knows Catherine's lawyer will find while digging into their 35 years of marriage. With Bash poised to take over operations, Henry has also made it clear we are to play mediators for any discussion of Bash with the board – mostly due to the undisclosed family mob ties that would go far to discredit his already tenuous standing with them.

I feel my body tense as I think through what Henry is trying to pull. This isn't a century that prohibits illegitimate children from inheriting property – but he seems intent on taking the opportunity to sever his ties with Catherine anyway. He could have done it years ago, when Bash was born, but he needed Catherine's money. Only now has he concocted a way to divorce her and take her money with him. So many years and so many children, recklessly cast aside because he finally discovered a way to make his favorite, firstborn son his full legal heir. The entire situation sickens me, especially when I think of the role I played in putting it into motion. I look forward to all of this being over so we can return to our normal job descriptions and I can move the last few weeks into the 'previous' section of my life.

The elevator doors catch my eye as they slide open and shut. In the first days after Francis left, I imagined time and again those doors sliding open to reveal his homecoming – but I realized I couldn't continue to function if I were always waiting for him to reappear. Too much needed to be done in his absence and, so, I began to relegate thoughts to their own corners. The last few weeks have reflected my desperate need to disconnect from his departure and ensuing silence, as my days became more structured and more strictly defined than they were previously.

When at work, I focus on my work. New contracts and merger documents have a steady home on my desk. When at Henry and Catherine's, I focus on Charles and little Henry – trying my best to distract them from their parents' current situation. We have gone to the circus, to children's plays, to the library. It keeps us all from thinking too much.

At night, I make habitual use of the sleeping pills prescribed for me after my room was violated and we found ourselves under threat last fall. When I walk to or from work, I allow myself the ten minutes in either direction to focus on my schedule for the day or the evening. It is then that I count the days, remind myself to call as if it were another appointment – and I move forward.

Because the moment I stop moving forward, I know my world will stop.

_He'll come home when he's ready._

I take a deep breath, mention to Greer that one of us needs to discuss the purpose of corporate transparency with Henry, and stand up. My hands grab the legal documents from the table where I absentmindedly placed them upon sitting down. She nods, volunteering to talk to Henry.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Mary?" She puts forth the same question as Kenna, one of her eyebrows raised in a high arch. "Once it's done, you can't take it back without costly litigation and damage control for Stuart."

Lifting my fingers to my forehead, I knead the knuckle of my thumb just above my left eyebrow. _No, I'm not sure_. I feel trapped by my decisions, particularly since Bash has displayed so little business acumen. His instincts with people continue to be spot-on, which is why I initially thought he would make an excellent liaison between the companies – but his ability to handle the details, the numbers, and all of the other necessary items Francis went to school for years to learn remain lacking. No amount of mentoring or late-night cram sessions seems to help and Henry doesn't seem to care, distracted as he is by his affairs outside of the office.

This risky move to keep Francis alive at all costs – it might just cost both companies everything. Unfortunately, I don't have another option. Henry won't let me have another option.

My discussion with Greer has taken a chisel to the internal walls I've constructed to separate the pieces of my life, slowly illuminating and airing the rooms as they begin to reunite, with everything jumbling together in the debris.

"I think I need some fresh air," I manage to speak. Greer notes the panic in my eyes. She nods sympathetically and I push the folder into her hands, hastening toward the elevator. With each step, I feel my heart double its pace within my chest. I punch the down button and wait, hoping the car arrives and I can escape the building before I lose my composure completely.

Staring down at the points of my shoes, I fixate on slowing my rapid heartbeat with the breathing exercises a psychologist once recommended for when I feel panicked. For weeks, I have managed to remain calm and unaffected. _Why today?_ _Why now?_

The arrival ding sounds. I lift my head and throw my shoulders back as the doors fall open. My mind seems to flicker, playing a cruel trick on my eyes and reinforcing my need to take a break from the day. I blink once, then twice – but what I see before me doesn't change. My knees start to buckle and one word escapes my lips in a dry whisper.

"Francis."

* * *

"Mary!" Lola exclaims, rushing forward to wrap me in a hug. My eyes wander back and forth between her and Francis. I sense the furrowed lines spread across my forehead, a sure sign of my confusion at their joint appearance.

"Lola!" I decide to focus on her first, casting off any thoughts that they might possibly have _been_ together. _Where did she say she was off to this week?_ "You're back."

Turning back to face him, I manage to add softly, "Both of you."

He looks older, somehow. Made worn and weary in the days since I last saw him. Tired. I'm not sure how I'm still on my feet – I am certain my face reflects the same fatigue as his own. Hopefully, that exhaustion masks some of the shock making its way into my system.

"We ran into each other at a bar we used to frequent in Hartford," Lola chimes in. Her face gives away no sentiment of guilt. I decide to believe that is the entirety of the story. "We decided to come back together."

She glances between me and Francis, acknowledging that the two of us still haven't really spoken to one another. "I'll get settled then," she says with an empathetic smile as she shrugs out of her coat. "I have an afternoon meeting with the new printer."

I watch her as she walks away, nearly colliding with Greer and Kenna on the way to her office. Kenna hugs her quickly before running over to me and extending my coat and gloves. Her eyes widen as she sees Francis lingering just behind me.

"Greer said you were headed out for a bit." She pauses, waiting for me to react. "I figured you would need these." I reach for the outerwear, thank her quietly, and step through the elevator doors.

Francis follows me back into the car, in spite of the fact he just rode it up to the Valois floor. My breath hitches and my heart pounds strongly as the doors slide shut, leaving the two of us alone for the first time in nearly a month. My questions mount.

_Why would he come back now? Why would he not call first, to tell me he was coming home? Unless he's not coming home? Why would he …_

"You heard about your mother?" The words leave my lips as the realization settles. "I'm so sorry."

And I _am _sorry. I have tried to convince Henry that he has no grounds for divorce, that there is no way in hell he will succeed in stripping Catherine of her family money – but it has been of no use. He thinks he can do it. Pushing aside the sting of knowing Francis didn't return for _me,_ I resolve to be an adult. This is _my _fault. I need to take responsibility for that. My own pain can wait.

"I'm back to plead with my father on her behalf. I'll be leaving again once the matter is settled and I'll return to figuring out what I should do with the rest of my life." My face falls in spite of my determination to not appear affected before him. His expression softens and a sob jumps into my throat at the sight. "I don't mean that to sound cruel or angry."

"I understand," I muster, struggling to keep my voice even. "You don't want to figure out our future before you determine your own." My left thumb and forefinger reach for and twist the ring on my right hand, the ring I have not removed in his absence.

He nods as his gaze chases the movement of my hands and comes to a rest on my ring. Every inch of me feels alive for the first time in weeks and, yet, I feel so uncontrollably sad. Nothing has changed. I still fear for his life. He still has yet to return to me, to our home.

The elevator reaches the bottom and I walk toward the doors, expecting that he wishes to return upstairs and try to interrupt one of Henry's meeting with his lawyers. I take one last look back at him.

"If you need a place to stay tonight, the apartment is empty. I've been staying with your parents." I reach for more words, but they don't come. Giving him a tentative smile, I turn my head and begin my walk to the lobby exit. The warm tears, long held back by some stupid need to save my pride, slip down my cheeks and quickly turn frigid as I push upon the door and find myself in the open winter air.

* * *

An hour after leaving, I return to the building. A short walk through the park and a light lunch in a warm cafe, removed from all of my problems, and I feel a little more emotionally balanced. Walking into the Valois common area, I remember a meeting I scheduled with Bash to discuss the requirements of his pending position with Stuart Tech and hasten to his office.

"She won't trust Catherine. I don't trust Catherine!"

"She turned to you because she had to. It was only a matter of convenience."

I stop in the hallway leading to the room, hearing the raised voices erupt in anger at its end. Recognizing both of them, I run toward the door as a coffee mug smashes into the wall above Bash's head and breaks into at least seven pieces before falling to the floor.

"You entitled son of a bitch!" Bash shouts angrily at his brother.

"You. You're nothing." Francis retorts, sneering. "Do you really think you can handle this job?"

"I know I can't – but I also know you won't survive this job," Bash lobs back defiantly. His hands form into fists at his sides.

Both men barely register my appearance as I enter the door. Bash pushes a chair aside, lunging for Francis's knees in an attempt to topple him. Unsurprisingly, it works and the brothers begin rolling back and forth – each trying to get his hits in when given an opening.

I gasp and start yelling, my voice giving away my frantic fear.

"Stop! Francis, Bash! Stop!" My cries go unheeded, but my instinct is to continue. Perhaps the security guards will show up to help pull them apart. "Stop! Please, stop!"

No one comes, the offices eerily quiet in the lunch hour. Jumping into the fray and breaking up this mess myself might be the only way to put an end to it. I lunge for the space between them, hoping to wedge myself in the midst of their flailing arms.

They pull back as I shove my way into the middle, each retreating into his own corner of the office. Bash looks away when I try to meet his eyes, ashamed for whatever just transpired. Francis matches my gaze with one cold and stony, then speaks firmly and with more fire than I've heard from him since we last fought.

"You don't have to do this. It's all over! My mother, the doctor, they have recanted their words."

My lungs feel as if I were the recipient of one of the thrown punches just moments earlier. _It can't be! Not after everything I've done to keep him safe! _Nearly speechless, I can only ask a simple, flustered question: "What do you mean?"

"There's no longer any predicted threat to my life," he spits out. "I can fight for my job. I can help you with your father's company. Please, listen … "

"I don't trust Catherine, Mary," Bash interjects. His eyes plead with me. "I don't trust her. She has been cornered by the lawyers. She would do anything to get herself out of this mess."

"Even sacrifice her oldest son to fate?" I counter, reason returning to me a little at a time. I seek to clarify, angling my head so I can see Francis's face. "What do you mean, Francis? There is no prophecy?"

"The doctor will tell you." He catches his breath, a mild relief flooding his face with my questions. "I will live. You must decide who will help you run these companies: Him or me."

I withdraw from the space between them, hitting the firm wall directly behind me. Sliding down, I sprawl limply on the floor. Francis and Bash resume their argument, but it dims as my own thoughts surpass them in volume.

_How did it come to this? _

* * *

Trembling, I exit Catherine's room and fall into the nearest chair. A paramedic appears, to tell me they have secured her for transport to the ER. She needs to have her stomach pumped. He praises me for calling so soon, before the painkillers could do too much damage.

_Stupid woman._ I curse at her in my head, politely thanking the young man out loud. Her tactic worked, however. I must admit to that. She refused to leave until I believed her, that Dr. Nostradamus had seen a future for me and for Francis. _Together_. Enjoying what our families have built and building a family of our own.

I finally broke down and called 911, leaving Catherine's side only to notify Stephen that assistance would be arriving shortly. We had already frightened the poor man with our argument. His looked relieved and told me he was prepared to call the police if he heard any sort of physical violence break out.

"Would you like to ride along, miss?" The paramedic asks gently, stirring me from my all-consuming replaying of the events of the last hour. "Miss?" he asks again, probably checking for further signs of shock.

"Yes," I respond quietly with a nod. "Let me grab my phone, though. I need to make a few calls."

* * *

Greer finds me pacing the hospital corridor two hours later, waiting for word on how Catherine is doing now that they have moved her into recovery.

"What is going on, Mary? I heard through Joy that you were headed to the hospital. I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail."

Her worried face comforts me, reminding me that she remains firmly on my side. _Always_.

"Sorry, Greer." I shake my head, clearing away the fog of the last few hours, and accept her hug. "I turned my phone off when I got here. I figured everyone would show up, rather than calling for details." Shrugging, I reach for my phone and push the button to turn it on. Her appearance has me wondering if anyone else has tried to call.

Two texts pop up. One from Elisabeth: 'I'm on the first flight I could find. Hope to be there soon.'

The other from Henry: 'I've heard from an inside source that Tudor goes up for auction in three weeks. I don't care what the hell is going on, but that company ought to be yours and my son's. I don't care which son, but you need to decide and make it legal. No more delays. Bash's paperwork goes through before Monday or I bring Francis back.'

As flabbergasted as I am by Henry's lack of concern for _his wife_, I find I'm not surprised. I refuse to be bullied by him. Regardless, I still know that I need to make a decision – and quickly – or I will risk the wrath of all three of the men involved.

"Have you seen Kenna?" I question Greer. "I need her help with some paperwork."

She looks puzzled but responds with a shake of her head. "No." Raising her eyebrows, she replies, "She said she had a meeting with Henry."

"Henry?" I feel light-headed. _That bastard_. His wife lying in the hospital after trying to kill herself and he doesn't care a bit – opting instead to enjoy his continued illicit affair with one of my best friends. Against my better judgment, anger builds in me, particularly at Kenna. I know she thinks she loves Henry, that he has promised her things, but my frustration with him gets momentarily rerouted in her direction. _Seriously, Kenna?! What the hell were you thinking?_

"Miss Stuart?" A nurse steps into the waiting area, requesting me.

"Yes?" I take a few steps toward her. "Is she out of recovery?"

"She is," the woman replies soothingly. "I can't tell you much, since you aren't technically family, but she says she would like to speak with you."

I nod my head and follow her to the room where Catherine will stay overnight. A monitor beeps rhythmically in the background and Catherine looks pallid in the hospital gown she has been given to wear. She lifts her hand, beckoning me to take it.

"Could we have a moment?" she asks dryly to the nurse, implying that she should leave us for the time being. While hesitant, she does as Catherine requests. When she has left the room, Catherine says blithely, "Well, what an eventful day!" She chuckles, giving way to a hoarse cough. "Francis returns. Rumors of the Tudor auction. Legal papers drawn up to officially establish Bash in Francis's jobs." She sizes me up, even in her debilitated state. "Bash isn't ready for that much responsibility, Mary." Her words are soft, urgent. "How could he blame you for letting Francis take back his place at Valois?"

She pulls her other hand over to rest on top of mine, enclosing it with as firm a grip as she can gather in her self-inflicted weakness.

"I know you think they can both handle the tasks at hand. While that might be true in time, I argue that you trust one more – with your life, with your heart, and with your father's company."

"I am afraid," I mutter. My eyes feel the weight of tears gathering behind them as I watch the monitor's peaks and troughs form in waves of green light.

"I know you are," she assures me. "But I trust you will make the right decision. I will not stand in your way." A faint smile pushes up the corners of her lips. "Now you're free to go to the man you love." Her voice begins to drift as the latest drug filtering through her IV begins to take hold. "Let him love you. Let him come home … "

* * *

I hang up the phone and sigh. Not wanting to speak to Bash directly, I'm grateful that I got his voicemail when I called his cell number. I truly appreciate everything he has done these last few weeks. I want him to be a part of this – of the relationship between Valois and Stuart – but I know that keeping him in a capacity he can't handle will only make both companies vulnerable.

I find the power switch and press it, watching the screen dim as I shove it into my bag. Finding Francis becomes the next item on my task list. Surely he won't answer his phone if I call, but maybe he has taken me up on my offer to stay at the apartment tonight or perhaps he checked his messages and will soon arrive to check on his mother.

Deciding to give him another half hour, I start toward the cafeteria to procure a cup of tea and something to eat. I have no doubt this will be a long night.

Looking up, I locate the green arrow that leads to my destination. I reach the end of the hallway, turn my feet to continue – and that's when I see him.

Not stopping to think, I throw aside all caution and run to him. He looks taken aback as I careen into his arms. The nurses look on and titter in amusement at the scene unfolding in their usually tame hallway. But I don't care.

My lips collide with his and everything else fades around me in the most cliched way as his mouth responds eagerly with its own tug. His tongue gently slips along the edge of my bottom lip and I open myself to every emotion I have tried to forget while he was away.

I love this man and I have missed him. And I so desperately want him to come home.

We pull back, mostly out of necessity but also due to the cat calls the nurses have begun to make. I feel the heat of a blush make its way up the sides of my neck and onto my cheeks. A few stray tears drop from my eyes. After so many days apart, it feels strange to be in such close proximity to Francis. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he needs a better explanation than I offered by simply attacking him with my lips in a hospital hallway.

"You," the word rushes out. I'm not quite sure how coherent my attempts to explain will be, but I know I need to try. "It's you. It has always been you." I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as the words spill forth.

"Does this mean you'll let me take my own risks?" He cocks his head to the side, hesitation evident in his eyes.

I nod, further words failing me. Moisture begins to well again in my left tear duct.

"Does this mean you'll marry me?" He pauses and I set aside the twinge of regret I feel. I hate that he thinks my answer to this question has changed. It hasn't.

"Yes!" I stand on my tiptoes and bring my lips to his again, determined to show him that I wholeheartedly agree to his proposition.

He chuckles to himself as we pull apart once more.

"We must protect Sebastian," I venture cautiously. "There are those who won't support him in another role, now that he has been unsuccessful in this one."

"Of course," Francis nods. "I'll make sure of it. We'll find a place for him."

Someone clears her throat behind us and we slowly turn, meeting Elisabeth's tired and amused gaze.

"Hello, big brother," she greets Francis. "Mary." Her eyes alight at our current state and she teasingly motions down the hall. "How about you take me to my mother's room and then you two can go home?"

_Home. _

We walk her to the door, our fingers inseparably tangled together. Francis pops his head in to confirm that Catherine remains asleep and to get the latest update from her nurse. Elisabeth pushes us toward the door, one hand on each of our shoulders.

"Out," she commands as sternly as she can manage. She inherited that ability from her mother. "Go home. It's been too long since either of you have been home."

I couldn't agree more.

* * *

"So … " Francis's lips glide over mine. "This wedding thing … " His face disappears into the slope of my neck, leaving warm impressions that make me glad we're already laying down.

"Mmm?" I reply, distractedly. He nips at my earlobe and lifts his head to look into my eyes as I gasp and gulp for air.

"I think it should be soon. Like, _soon_." He places sufficient emphasis on the word that it piques my curiosity.

"Like, how soon?" I ask, ready to give him anything so long as he keeps tracing lazy circles into my hip with the pads of his fingers.

"I was thinking we could host a holiday party in a few weeks, maybe a few days from Christmas?" He grins before disappearing again, his mouth moving skillfully down the length of my body. The sensation overwhelms my common sense and he knows it. I have no willpower when it comes to him, particularly when it has been so long since we last laid together in our bed.

"Mmhmmm … " I sigh happily more than I answer. At this moment, I don't care about the details or what plan he has concocted in the two hours since we arrived back at our apartment. I'd marry him tomorrow if I could.

"That way," he halts his ministrations to speak and I sorely feel the loss of the contact with my skin. "We can have our wedding, on our terms." He glances up to see my reaction and I can tell through my heavy eyelids that he is pleased by what he has found on my face.

"Sounds wonderful," I murmur. Stretching out my hand, I weave my fingers into his hair and savor the feel of the curls as I bring his head back up next to mine. "All I ever wanted was you."

He reaches for the covers, pulling them up to our shoulders in an attempt to ward off the night's chill. I squirm as his light touch turns teasing and then relentless, pulling me to him.

"Wonderful, indeed," he mumbles, a wide smile stretching across his face as he shifts his thoughts to his intentions for the coming moments. "I can't wait."

* * *

A knock sounds at the door and I shuffle over to open it just enough to hear Francis say on the other side, "Everyone has arrived. Are you sure you want to do this?"

He sounds nervous and I swallow my giggles. I have never been more certain of anything in my entire twenty-five years.

"Absolutely," I reply through the opening. "I love you."

I hear his smile as he responds, "I love you, too. I'll see you soon." His last statement emerges in a whisper, barely loud enough for me to catch it.

_Yes. Soon. _Shutting the door, I return to the full-length mirror positioned near the window. In the winter's afternoon light, the white lace of my dress glows brilliantly against my skin. I slip into my shoes, grateful for the quiet. This is fully my moment. My decision. No friends to talk me into or out of walking through that door and down the aisle and saying 'yes' to a lifetime of adventures with my best friend. I have long been waiting for this moment.

_Just me_.

My thoughts drift to my parents, my heart constricting at the thought that they cannot be here to see this – that my father cannot give me away to the man waiting for me in the cathedral across the way; that my mother cannot see me wear the earrings Daddy gave her on their wedding day or make a last-minute fuss about how to bustle my dress when the ceremony comes to a close.

_When we're back after the holidays, I'll write her a letter – and send pictures._

Grabbing a tissue, I dab at my eyes and breathe deeply. I touch up my eyeliner, take a drink of the water so kindly provided, and affix the small beaded headband atop the carefully executed chignon. I'll have one of my friends help me remove the well-hidden combs holding the thin veil in place later. _When I'm married_.

The mere thought thrills me to my depths. So much of my life has been composed of sorrow – one lament after another – and, yet, it now opens before me with the promises of joy and beauty. Though I carry more than one regret, I have no doubts about what I am about to do.

Another rap at the door draws my attention, the sound merely serving as notice that my assistant has arrived. She peers around the door, pleased to find me fully dressed and ready.

She smiles brightly, motioning toward the door.

"Let's get you married, then, shall we?"

* * *

After I see his face, I lose the rest of the evening in a delightful blur. Nothing else holds my attention. He watches me so tenderly during the mass, something unnameable in his eyes that I only understand because it matches the emotion swelling in my own heart.

The ring slides onto my left hand, to be nestled later with the more traditional engagement ring that hangs on the chain at my neck. I reach for his ring, taking it from the pillow it rested on through the ceremony thus far, and place it securely on the fourth finger of his left hand.

The service continues, stretching on in its formality and tradition. I hardly notice the minutes as they pass, the words and rites joining me to Francis for whatever remain of our days.

The priest cues us to proceed back through the nave and into the atrium, where the small group of family and friends will be invited to join us shortly. The doors swing closed behind us, giving us a few short moments to ourselves. I throw myself heedlessly into his arms, feeling them tighten around me. Stretching upward, I place a light kiss at the junction of earlobe and neck.

"We did it!" I excitedly murmur into his ear. My nose buries itself in the warmth beneath Francis's jaw. He smiles and I feel it more than I see it, his jawbone clenching and pushing upward against my face.

"We did," he agrees, guiding my head so he can see me again. He brings me in for what he intends to be a quick kiss, but I deepen it in the moment it hits me that I'm kissing my _husband_. He pulls back as we hear the doors open behind us and the patter of our guests as they begin to shuffle through – shocked, to be sure, at the prospect that we decided to get married and didn't tell anyone in advance. At least there will be a respectable reception elsewhere on the grounds, with lots of wine to help them get used to the idea.

Francis leans in as our family and friends make their way toward us, speaking low and offering me a mischievous wink. "I'll have to ask you to hold that thought, _wife_."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: This one was a doozy - thanks for hanging in there! I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think. :)

The church, while vaguely described, is the Cathedral of St John the Divine, which is gorgeous and had the different buildings I wanted to utilize while they prepared for the wedding, got married, and received their guests afterward.

I also listened to Christmas music while writing and editing the bottom half of this chapter. If you're looking for a recommendation, I'd like to direct you to The Oh Hellos' Family Christmas Album. It's excellent.

**Disclaimer**: I borrowed heavily from the dialogue in 113/The Consummation, altering it where it suited my needs. Naturally, it doesn't belong to me, but to the people who wrote it initially.


	8. Epilogue

When my son was little, I often thought of him as an odd child. He played well enough with his younger sister, Elisabeth, but he preferred to sit alone in his room whenever possible. For hours, he would play with his blocks, building cities and lives for the people in them. It was almost as if he were waiting for something, for someone.

That someone arrived in the form of a six-year-old girl named Amanda Burne. She came into our home with a new name, sad eyes, and a heaviness of heart. For all intents and purposes, she arrived an orphan. All we knew was she somehow lost both of her parents in a very small window of time. In those three years she lived in our home, she lacked nothing – we incorporated her fully into our family and provided her with every privilege we gave to our own children.

But it was my son, Francis, who brought her to life. For the first time, he felt _needed_. He offered Amanda something that went beyond basic human needs – himself. The first few months, she barely spoke, but he would sit at her side for hours. He set aside his cities and their inhabitants for a simpler companionship – just waiting for the chance to hear her voice. Occasionally, he would reach over and grasp her hand, squeezing it gently to remind her that she wasn't alone in the world.

I have no clue how, of all things, my son became _empathetic_. That ability to enter into and share in another's pain certainly did not come from his father or from me.

As she emerged from her traumatized shell, however, we all fell in love with the newest addition to our family. Elisabeth finally had the sister she had always asked for and Francis barely left her side. While most of her relationships were naturally familial, something deeper took root between her and my son.

When Elisabeth would have playdates with her other friends, Amanda and Francis would cart his blocks up to the treehouse in the backyard. They built even bigger, more complex cities on that crude wooden floor than had been constructed on the lush carpet in my son's playroom. I would walk outside to collect them or to take them a snack and I would hear the two of them chattering away, playing make believe.

They cared about the people in their cities – whether Peter had enough grain to bake bread or where Karen might find her long-lost cat. It always seemed to me they were born to take care of others. They found a kindred spirit in one another, choosing to embrace their idiosyncrasies as two peas in the same pod, and they made no effort to mold themselves to everyone else's expectations.

When the trial began and the US Marshal took the girl away, we all felt her absence – but none felt it more keenly than Francis. He never truly recovered, eventually just moving forward one day at a time. New friends at school and Sebastian's unorthodox arrival helped, but they never took her place.

All of us had hoped Amanda would remain with us forever, that the trial's eventual conclusion might mean we could formally adopt her and make her our own. We knew our letters wouldn't be delivered until all the details in her father's case had been settled, but we chose to write anyway. Thirteen years of letters.

Eventually, those letters brought her back to us.

Some would label it a mother's intuition, but I recognized a change in Francis the moment I told him Henry chose that little girl to work for Valois. Something lifted from him – some weight he had carried for more than a decade. After so many years, he still missed her.

And though Francis pushed against his father's ploy of a false engagement to bolster the board's belief in him, I knew it was only a matter of time before his reintroduction to Mary Stuart led to something honest. My heart rejoiced when they walked through the front door of the house in Montauk, with their newly unleashed affection written all over the lines of their faces.

The young couple I see joyfully ambling across the grounds between St. John the Divine and Cathedral House this evening may no longer be the young children they once were – but they will always be _my_ children. They make their own decisions; they have their own home; and they have found their way back to one another, even if it necessitated my meddling at times.

Granted, it was my doing that parted them on more than one occasion, but I prefer not to dwell on such things.

From my perch on the church steps, I watch the merry little party and sigh – recognizing the quick passage of years since the two were little and spent their afternoons in a small wooden building ten feet off the ground.

Snow falls delicately from the overcast skies above, adding a sense of magic to the bride and groom as it sticks to Mary's dark hair and gathers on the black of Francis's suit coat. The young woman is everything I ever hoped my son would find in a wife.

Regardless of how I feel about being caught off my guard, I can't deny the fact that my oldest son has married his other half. I do hope they will remain this happy. Henry and I were happy enough in the beginning, but we made mistakes. Our early bliss quickly faded, making way for bitterness and spite.

_I want a different life for my son._

I wish they had more need for me, but I know that they do not – this wedding provides proof enough of that. I scowl to myself a bit at the perceived slight, though I recall seeing a few items from our weekly planning brunches in the ceremony. Surely all of our attempts to put together a fake wedding helped the two of them pull off the unexpected nuptials. Unfortunately, when I throw them the proper society reception required of our social standing in a few months, I will need to rethink some of those details – if only to avoid the tackiness of recycling.

Walking over to Cathedral House, I step through the doors into the warmth of the firelit interior. My husband appears next to me, glass of red wine in hand as yet another peace offering. If I would like to do so, the lawyers have informed me I can proceed with the divorce he set in motion. Henry, however, has been extremely eager to make amends since he at last discovered he had no chance of getting my family's money. It would be a shame to cast aside our years together. He likes my money and I like the power of his company. I think we might be able to prolong our union a little bit longer, at least for the sake of Charles and little Henry.

As for the newlyweds, I must admit my curiosity toward their marrying in haste. The idea crosses my mind that I might have a grandchild in my near future. _What a delightful thought!_ Perhaps they will let us know when they return from the French Alps after the holidays.

The reason matters little, however. I realize this as I bear witness to my son's joy – his face alight as I have never seen him, next to his new bride. She is he equal in every way. He loves her; she loves him. I have anticipated the arrival of this very moment for nearly twenty years.

_What more could a mother want?_

* * *

**Author's Notes**: And therein concludes this journey into the Harbor universe! Eventually, I do intend to write a third multi-chapter installment covering 114-122 (and I do mean _eventually_ - keep in mind that it took me six months to plan and write this one). Until then, I have several one-shots plotted out (including one set just after this closes, which is next on my to-write list).

**Thank you, thank you, and thank you** for reading my (many) words, for leaving me lovely reviews, and for letting me (at least a little bit) entertain you with something familiar and foreign all at once. I should be getting around to responding to reviews over the next few days. The urge to simply _write _has been there this last week (can you tell?), so I went with it. You are a beautiful lot! :) _  
_

**Disclaimer**: Not too much of this is borrowed. A lot of the references are actually from the first few chapters of Harbor, which is almost entirely my own concoction. Reign, regardless, still does not belong to me. At the end, I did borrow some of Catherine's words from 108/Fated. I felt they fit nicely.


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